Bad Raps: In Poetry, Social Media and Of Course, The Common Core

Posted on January 20, 2014 by conversationeducation

Poetry and Social Media have both had their share of bad raps.

The poetry of our (collective) past was often presented as something that was only available to those chosen few who may or may not find the many levels of hidden meanings tucked in between the lines. Every time I bring poetry to my teachers, there is a group squirm in the room as everyone shifts in their seats and falls back into their past experiences with poetry.

You will find poetry nowhere unless you bring some of it with you.
– Joseph Joubert

Poetry was not available and many hold fast to the belief that it still isn’t. But thanks to modern day poets such as Billy Collins, Mary Oliver and even those of old such as e.e. cummings, poetry can be accessible to all. With a little patience and practice some even come to enjoy poetry.

We just need to shift out of our old habit of thinking we “won’t get it” and realize that what we take from the poem is enough. It may just be the sound of the words or how they are arranged; it may be a line that strikes the soul, or an adverse reaction to an image. Whatever it is, it is for us. Poetry can move people to their own “edges” if you will, asking them to work and think a little bit more and little bit harder, what does that mean?

“Poetry is a deal of joy and pain and wonder, with a dash of the dictionary.” Khalil Gibran

Social Media has also gotten a bad rap, especially when we are having conversations about our youth. And while we might be concerned about the growing evolutionary thumbs of this next generation and their inability to communicate face to face without a device are worthy concerns, there is the upside to this wonderful world of technology.

Credit to http://www.thedrum.com –

One is the meeting of poetry and social media I encountered these past couple of weeks as poetry swept it’s way onto Facebook and flooded my feed with fabulous poets and poetry. The way it worked was simple. Read a poem posted by a friend and if you liked that poem they would send you a poet and you in turn posted a poem by that assigned poet.

I can only wonder how many hits poetry.org and other such sites got this poetry month. It was a treat to go onto Facebook wondering what poem or poet you would see next. It was also interesting to see what new poets might come up. And even if the poem was one I knew, it was nice to be revisited by old favorites. Some even went so far as to research their assigned poet, posting photos and biographical information as well as a poem. There were side conversations about how many poets some knew and how thrilled others were to be introduced to new poets. Others felt “out of their league” but quickly immersed themselves in finding the perfect poem. Some began the process of identification as one who likes and dare I even say might consider writing poetry.

I can’t tell you how many poems I added to my poetry folder for future teaching! There was a crazy wonderful poetry community created through social media with people across the country that never would have been possible without social media. It was, if I may say so myself, pretty damn cool!

And then we come to the Common Core where poetry is not mentioned, named or listed in any categories in the entire document. And while the intent was not to eliminate poetry, that is the interpretation of many. Schools are reading this document as a curriculum even when it clearly states that it is NOT! But the subtle, or not so subtle message underlying the omission of poetry is that what is not listed will not be tested; therefore precious time will not be wasted teaching it. Schools without Shel Silvserstien, Prelutsky, Roald Dahl, A.A. Milne, and Sharon Creech will be very sad places.

While I realize you have all heard me rant and rave on about the CCSS nation wide hold on education, I do not believe I have given it’s history justice and so I direct you here to a link where Diane Ravitch lays out the history of the Common Core and it’s daunting predecessors.

Diane Ravitch

I believe this history gives context to why we are where we are and how incredibly insipid it is. I believe anyone who has any stock in the public educational system needs to read this. I would like to see this article go viral. The more we know the more we can begin to understand what is at stake.

And so I leave you with my assigned poet (by the fabulous Children’s poet, Amy Ludwig VanDerwater, who you must check out at this link) and the words of ee cummings: enjoy, savor and just take it in for what it is, let it linger on your tongue for the sweetness that it is and nothing more or less.

e.e. cummings

E. E. Cummings (1894 – 1962)

I Will Wade Out

i will wade out
till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers
I will take the sun in my mouth
and leap into the ripe air
Alive
with closed eyes
to dash against darkness
in the sleeping curves of my body
Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery
with chasteness of sea-girls
Will i complete the mystery
of my flesh
I will rise
After a thousand years
lipping
flowers
And set my teeth in the silver of the moon

And as the world goes, I read this post to my daughter, Emma and she reminded me that her choir in High School sang this poem as composed by Eric Whitacre. Love the connections! And while we don’t have a recording of her choir, here is a youtube link to another choir singing it. Glorious!

I Will Wade Out

Learning as a Deeply Personal Experience: On Teaching Readers and Writers

Posted on October 6, 2013 by conversationeducation

The buzz of Mentor Texts has been around for quite a while now and while I like this idea, what I don’t like is that our young writers are often instructed to use a particular mentor text for a given time as assignments. Using a particular structure to do this, instead of exposing them to a variety of ideas and texts and then helping and guiding our students to figure out what would work best for them, the writers.

What would happen if we asked our young writers to first think about what it was they wanted to say, to write about, to read about, to discover and then come up with the best way to express this?

When my daughter was first diagnosed with leukemia I kept a journal and wrote down every single little detail of our experience. It was exhausting to get onto those pages all that I felt I needed to. Her every reaction to every drug, the times she received the doses, the different emotions experienced, missing my 8 month old at home. I quickly fell behind and was angry that I was missing so much of what I thought I needed to get down, in the name of control.

Book of Poetry by Dan Rothermel

And then one day someone brought me this small book called, Sweet Dreams, Robyn written by Dan Rothermel. It is a collection of poems he wrote about his daughter with cancer. This book transformed my writing life. Suddenly, I had the permission and allowed myself to write in poetry finding it easier to get down all that I wanted to without getting muddled in all of the pros it took. In the words of my Dad, “less is more” in writing.

With the death of my father I had this same experience as I was meandering through the blog world I found a blog that just spoke to me. She writes a fictional piece about the death of her mother and says,

“It came together when I was working on a blog post about Wallace Stevens one of my favorite poets. His “13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird” was on my mind while I was reading Paul Harding’s Tinkers.”

Her mentor Wallace Stevens gave her what she needed to capture what she wanted to write in fiction and I instantly knew that this too would be the perfect way for me to capture and process my father dying. Snippets of strong images that I needed to get down on paper and so her blog became my mentor text. It was more than perfect.

You can find her blog at http://deborahbrasket.wordpress.com/

So here is my version, based on the ideas I stole from her that she stole from Wallace Stevens.

13 Ways of Looking at Death Just Before, During and After

I called him on the phone, his voice weak and wavering as his hand fought to keep the phone still. “Hey Dad, how are you feeling?”

“Bad. This is Bad. What I have is really bad.” I cringe, as I know he knows it is bad. Sepsis. Blood infection on top of pneumonia not to mention his COPD, heart disease and diabetes…

He has never said it was bad before. He always said, “It is getting better.

It is bad.

His oxygen cord lies on the dirty floor as it takes her a moment to realize there are no lines crossing his face, lines of plastic jewelry tubes that have become as permanent as his glasses. He is not getting any air.

And she wonders…just how long has he been without oxygen?

She calls the nurse and insists he gets a new one. Nurse never responds to the absence of his air or how long he has been without it.

Idiots.

III

She is alone with him, Red Sox images flashing in the dark room, sound blaring while she simultaneously plays Candy Crush. He wakes, peers over and says, ”You are still here? I really appreciate that.”

I smile.

And we go on like that for hours.

The Sox won.

Won the AL East Title. He is not aware.

She hoped it was a good sign.

She is always looking for signs.

Today is a good day. He is out of bed, sitting up in the hospital chair as she enters. He starts talking, “You know I sat up all night trying to remember the kids names.”

She thinks it must be all of the grandkids that he is forgetting…he continues…

“I know I have 3 kids. 2 daughters and a son.”

“Yes that is right” she replies, as he looks up at her and says, “The first daughter is Lisa.”

“Yes Dad, Lisa is your first daughter.”

“Then there is another one, you, what is your name?”

Her 10-year-old self emerges and screams inside, YOU named me Dad!! Don’t you remember? I have the coolest name in the world because YOU made it up.

That’s enough of this name game.

We gotta get him the hell out of this hospital.

Me, My Dad and Lisa

My once virile father sits perched on the kitchen island pursing for air. How did he get in the house so quickly? My brother in law carried him in, like a baby in his arms, but he was amazed at just how heavy he really was, all filled up with 9 days of hospital IV fluids so he had to stop to rest.

We still laugh at the absurdity of my Dad sitting with his feet swinging on the kitchen counter. Who says you don’t go backwards?

He then carries him the next leg into the bed where he will remain until he dies.

Each breath is a struggle and you can tell it actually hurts. Never mind when he coughs. He just wants to feel better, but he doesn’t really as he tries to negotiate in his head that he is now home and how he thought being home would make him feel better…but he doesn’t. Now what? You can see it coursing across his forehead like the GMA banner in Times Square. Now what? Now what? Now what?

VII

Doctor came to the house. Yes, in 2013 a Doctor actually came to meet the needs of his patient. There is a God. (See previous post on Systems)

Dad chose hospice. Visions of nurses, social workers and support at our side danced her head as she wondered…does he really know what he is choosing?

She is sent up to the Local Colonial Pharmacy to get the “hospice kit”. A box filled with drugs and lots of other things medical that you don’t want to know about never mind even think about using.

She is the chosen one to give her father his first dose of comfort packaged in a needless syringe to be administered orally. Flashbacks of shoving chemo filled syringes disguised in chocolate pudding to her 3 and a half-year-old smack her in the face.

Click…she re-enters that mode and just does what she has to do. She has been here before and she just does it. Nurse Ratched is back in the house.

VIII

My brother arrives a few minutes after giving my Dad the morphine.

The pill that he was begging for.

The morphine that I was afraid of.

The morphine that came without the nurses and the social workers and the volunteers to help us through this process.

Where in the hell were those hospice people she had heard so many wonderful stories about?

All they got was hospice in a box that had to be refrigerated.

It was just My Mom and I with my Dad yelling at us, “Will you just give it to me for God’s sake, I don’t care if it is the wrong dose.”

He begged for relief as we became more and more agitated and unsteady in the moment, dropping syringes, reading and rereading the prescription and even calling the pharmacist.

And finally I just gave it to him as he gasped for air and I suddenly realized we too had been as negligent as the hospital.

His oxygen tank had run out. No wonder he was desperate for something. How many ways are there to torture a man?

And they left the room when her brother arrived.

Jamie and Dad

Morphine overdose. Her brother horrified that we left him alone with a his father who was fine and talking with him one minute and then was suddenly hallucinating and trying to get out of bed. His strength mammoth as my mother got in bed behind him to restrain him. He could not walk on those big boats of feet filled with fluid.

I call the VNA. I reach out for those hospice people who were supposed to be there and tell him we need help ASAP!!!!!

He responds that giving morphine is an “art” and not that you gave him too much but that if he had been there he would have started with a lower dose. After telling her this for the 4^th time she wants to reach out and punch him through the phone…then why the HELL would you hand it over to an amateur?

He arrives at the house and starts talking about the “art” of dosing morphine again!!! She sees red and runs from him to avoid physically clobbering him.

Next Time…I give him ¼ of the recommended dose.

Thank you, Honorary Dr. Brother James. It says you can give it every 30 minutes. One quarter of a dose lasted him 12 hours.

Insanity.

He lays in bed and sleeps, or so it seems, soundly for days on end.

The question dancing through the house…”when will it happen?”

The family has their own form of hospice in a “Come to Jesus” kind of scene from a bad Lifetime Movie. We all give him permission to go, hands on, tears flying. Sister Lisa actually seems to be cheering him up to the pearly gates. Everybody says their peace and then we all continue to sit with big red puffy eyes, exhausted and we wait.

He doesn’t go.

When will he go?

He doesn’t go.

From the background Cousin Anne tells us, “He isn’t going to go right now, it doesn’t happen like that.” And snaps us out of our delusions that we can will him to go in that moment.

The sleepless nights wear on as brother and sister get up at different times to peek in to see my mother sleeping next to my yes, still breathing, father.

Exhaustion settles into the house and takes a seat on the couch alongside us.

Maybe he is not going anywhere. Maybe he will live forever.

Meals are delivered. They are all amazed at how they just show up and are so thankful because eating and food have not been on their radar.

Dad has not really eaten or had anything to drink for over 12 days.

Unless you count 4 little bird bites here and there. I fed him his last scrambled egg from Lisa’s chickens a couple days ago. No solid food since eating 5 bites of that egg. No water. Nothing.

How does the human body beat on? Especially one we all thought was so fragile?

His Hands don’t even look like his anymore they are so filled up with fluid, boxers hands.

Every moment stretches on as you wonder…when will his last breath be? Who will be with him? She wonders all of these things as she crawls into bed with him and rubs his back and quietly cries for her Daddy while the Red Sox blare on the radio from the bedside table next to us.

“How can something so natural be so unnatural?” son James wonders.

XII

She wakes at 8. Walks downstairs past her sleeping brother and sees her mother making the bed around her father’s still body. His breathing has changed. It is short. Very short. She says, get the morphine.

I know I must give him him the rest of the syringe…the same dose I administered 5 days earlier…it was what he needed. He was hardly breathing.

Mom is on his right. She is on his left.

He opens his eyes for the first time since the morphine began. The biggest widest eyes you have ever seen and he looked over at my Mom and she said, “Look at those big beautiful brown eyes. I love those eyes. They have not been that open in years. I wonder why none of you got those eyes? I am the dominant one.”

“I always wished I had gotten those brown eyes I respond as his eyes then slowly trail to find me on the left. He stares right at me for a moment and then it is as if he is looking to something beyond me. He holds that gaze for what seems like forever before he moves his sights straight ahead and opens them even wider. He was seeing the light. He liked it. He felt peaceful as he took one long deep breath and closed his eyes.

“Is that it?” Mom and I looked at each other. It seemed to be. No pulse.

And then out of nowhere one last little breath just to mess with us as we laughed.

Dad died.

8:15 am on Sunday, September 29^th, 2013.

It was beautiful.

Dad and Mom taking flight on Chappy

XIII

She misses him. They all miss him. She is not sure what to do so she talks about him. She remembers him. She reads. She writes about him. She laughs at his Donald Duck impression stored away on her computer. She shuffles through years of pictures and marvels at how great he looked for so long regardless of his health issues. She thanks her Mom for keeping him so healthy for so long. She misses him. Every day.

He was a great man.

He had 9 lives.

He lived every one of them fully.

He was her Dad.

I love this piece because for me it captures all that I want to remember and all that was there during this incredibly intense, scary, weird time. I feel better after reading about others experiences and then writing my own.

What would have happened had I been in a student in class and I was asked to write a recipe or a persuasive essay from one character in my assigned book to another when all I could think about was my Dad? Do we consider the lives of our writers, where they are and what they have to say and what they are interested in reading about?

I would argue that right now we teach the writing and not the writers. We teach the reading and not the readers. We think about checking things off. Persuasive Essay, check, Informational Reading, check, Memoir, check, Close Reading, Check.

What would happen if we trusted and guided readers and writers to know, to figure out what it was they wanted to know more about, what they wanted to say and then focused on helping them discover the best way or ways to read about it and say it? If we gave them the time to read others and think to themselves, “Hey, I could write something like that!”

Reading and Writing are my “go to’s” when I am trying to figure something out, process emotions, inform, wonder, preach, question, express, persuade, create, think, communicate, get lost and so many other things. What if the goal of every reading and writing curriculum was to help our readers and writers see reading and writing as a “go to” and not just a series of assignments to be completed, but tools for life?

And while this all may seem incredibly personal for a blog on education, I believe I am finally finding my stride in that a real and true education is deeply personal.

And I wonder…are we afraid of this authenticity? These truths?

And even as I consider posting this, putting it out into the world, I question myself. Do we want to hear or read these truths? Why do I put it out there? And while I know none of these answers I only know that I will…

Follow the link below to read my Dad’s obituary beautifully written by my sister, Lisa.

http://www.chadwickfuneralservice.com/fh/obituaries/obituary.cfm?o_id=2263261&fh_id=12966

Reflections on Drama, Drama Worlds and the Land of Misfit Kids

Posted on June 4, 2013 by conversationeducation

“All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in him time plays many parts.” William Shakespeare, As You Like It.

I have always been a great fan of using drama and movement in the classroom. Here I look at the dramas that unfold regardless of what we do or don’t do.

As I enter the room I look around. Who is here? Who is not here? Who is talking to whom and who is not talking to anyone? What is the “pulse” of the group today? Is the energy high? Low? Medium? Do I read stress, playfulness, and exhaustion? What does this group hold today? What dramas are unfolding before my eyes? What will happen in this class today?

Photo Credit: hobbinol.wordpress.com

By observing drama worlds within our classrooms we then invite our students to “read” the drama actions going on in their worlds with a heightened sense of awareness, reflection and learning. Each classroom is unique just as each individual within each classroom is unique. Understanding one’s self, the group and being able to “see” from someone else’s point of view allows us to teach empathy and real life skills that will be forever invaluable for our students. We can call this “dramatic consciousness” where we ask of our students and ourselves to be aware of what is happening in and around us, within the books we read, the characters we create and the meaning that we ultimately make for ourselves.

“Dramatic consciousness means bring aware that there is dramatic action taking place in one’s life, in one’s work, in the lives of the people who make up the school community. It implies being present to that drama, engaged in its passions, struggles and adventures, rather than being psychologically distant, removed from the action.”

Robert J. Starratt, The Drama of Schooling: The Schooling of Drama

Photo Credit: http://www.adaptastraining.com

One year, my first year at a new school I had the privilege of getting a class of “misfits”. I say this with love for each of these children, but the truth of the matter was that I had gotten all of the students whose parents had not made requests for other teachers. I was new, the unknown and the keeper of all of the students whose parents did not know to make requests or were just not interested in doing so. This group of kids was one of the most challenging and consequently rewarding groups I have ever worked with. We spent much of the year working on group dynamics and accepting people for who they were. When I say misfits I am talking about all of those kids who had something incredibly special about them that had yet to be nurtured. They were a group for whom school was not a comfortable stage. They were a group, who by the end of the year became the tightest knit group of students I have ever had.

“And so faith is closing your eyes and following the breath of your own soul down to the bottom of life, where existence and non-existence have merged into relevance. All that matters is the little part you play in the vast drama.”

-Anonymous

As individuals they were as different as they were talented. The everyday work of school, sitting at one’s desk and performing a series of tasks was not going to work for not just a couple of them, but literally for none of them. If they were not coded then they were labeled with some kind of something that supposedly hindered their ability to learn. They were also the group that took to drama more than any other. It was a way for them to be and to show their learning through movement. It was what eventually made this group do things that were beyond comprehension. Every day was filled with dramatic activities and chances for kids to “become” someone other than themselves. Puppetry, theater, role-playing, Picture Book Dramas, Joke – Telling, Songs, Poet’s Theater were parts of every day often inspired by the students themselves.

One beautiful spring day I was called to the principal’s office to discuss an upcoming “fight” that was to take place the very next day. The rumor was that many of the kids in my class were involved. Involved? That was putting it mildly. They had all gotten together as a class for each recess for weeks and worked on the planning and execution of this upcoming “event”. It was to be a showdown between two boys in our class who had agreed to “fight”. There was a marketing committee who went around at each recess talking up the upcoming event. There was a sales committee that created and sold tickets to the event. There were judges, participants and even prizes to be donated by various other students in the class. There were flyers made, and all of the the other third grade classes were buying the tickets and oh yes, did I mention, they were also placing bets on who would be the winner? In their own time they had created an entire drama world where each of them were the stars. The organization, thoughtfulness and planning that went into this event was amazing. But, we were at school and what were we going to do about this? The fight was cancelled, much to the relief of the contenders and monies were returned to the rightful owners. Letters of apology were written and yet, through it all there was a part of me that was actually proud of these kids and what they had almost pulled off.

“I love acting. It is so much more real than life.”

-Oscar Wilde

Photo Credit: http://www.tumblr.com

So, I took the pulse of the group and ran with it. We broke down the drama of the event they had planned, unpacked it and gathered on the carpet and discussed all of the skills they used to plan and eventually execute such an event. After mapping them out I proposed that we use all of these skills in order to plan an event that might actually help someone or a cause. The thinking began and the ideas started to flow. What would we do? At the time we were studying the rainforest and after careful consideration it was decided that we, as a class, would buy a portion of a rainforest. The efforts to raise money began as the kids headed up different committees and the money was eventually earned and we purchased an acre of a rainforest that would never be destroyed. We received a picture and a document stating it had been saved and the best part was that out of this planning and execution nobody got hurt and even better part of the world was saved.

“Life is like an overlong drama through which we sit being nagged by the vague memories of having read the reviews.”

John Updike

It seems to me that too often in our school worlds we see things in black and white. Sure, what they planned was inappropriate for school, but as a group it was an amazing feat. Here was a group of kids who lingered on the outskirts of the popular kids, who became, as a group, the focus of the third grade recess. They had planned an event that every other third grader wanted to be a part of. As a group these students created and made a drama world where they were center stage and not behind the scenes where most of them had been most of their school careers. And even as I write this I realize that this is not completely true because many of those kids were front and center, but not in a place that was helping them. Many were in trouble with the “law” for numerous accounts and even in this we need to ask, what is the drama action that is happening and what need is it fulfilling? Attention. Working together they were able to get this attention in a positive way.

We spend a great deal of time focusing on everything that is wrong. What is right? These kids were brilliant….but school was never a place where their genius was discovered. I just think we can do better. And part of better is helping kids to see their roles in life, in school and as individuals. Lights, Camera…ACTION!

Photo Credit: shakespeareinaction.wordpress.com

The Power of Modeling, Connection, Trust and Play

Posted on May 14, 2013 by conversationeducation

When my daughter Emma was three, she was playing happily in her corner of the kitchen where I had created her own little “house” complete with a wooden hutch, oven, highchair and cradle for her own dolls. She spent hours creating her own reality of being a Mom. One day I was about to wander in when I stopped and peered around the corner (yes mothers do spy!) and as I watched her rock her baby and look into her eyes adoringly, one of those warm washes of love and perfection poured over me. It was a moment that I wanted to sink into and enjoy.

Emma took her baby, placed her into the high chair and began feeding her and gently said, “Eat, dammit. Eat your food, dammit.”

Emma

I stood there in horror, unable to move and continued to watch. After the lovely meal, Emma placed her baby into the cradle and in a very nurturing way, covered her up with the blanket and said, “Now time to go to sleep, dammit.”

Again, that word hit me, smacked me right across the face and left a sting. What had happened to my perfect mother moment?

“Emma”, I asked, “What are you doing?”

“Putting my baby to bed. She is tired.”

“I see that. I heard you use a “D” word that I was wondering about.”

“A D word?” she contemplated. “Oh, Dammit?”

“Yes that is the one.”

“Oh, that is my baby’s name Momma.”

Silenced again.

The power of modeling…

I have been known to tell this story when working with teachers to show how modeling is one of the most powerful tools we have and that we can use it to show our literate lives for our students every day. It is what we do, not just what we say. We need to talk about what we read, write and wonder; to show them first hand that literacy is not about school, it is about life and how we choose to live this life. When students see that we are interested in writing, reading books, articles, blogs, on-line periodicals, newspapers etc., they can “see” how we live each literate day. When we talk about a great book we found at a used bookstore or bring in our favorite children’s book, they can catch a glimpse of our lives beyond the four walls of school. And they begin to consider theirs as well.

Bridging the gap between “school” reading and “life” reading is critical. As an instructor in the English Department at the University of New Hampshire’s Learning Through Teaching professional development program, I have the privilege of going into classrooms and supporting teachers in their coursework. Every time I enter a classroom I have my Writer’s Notebook and other sundry of books with me. It could be a couple of children’s picture books, the current novel I am reading, or more recently my Ipad. Kids ask me about the ever-present essentials (appendages?) that I carry with me. They are curious and I can open them up and share small pieces of myself with them. It is an entry point for conversations about reading and writing.

When I am modeling a lesson for a teacher or group of teachers, I start by talking to the class about my passion for reading and writing; my excitement over a new author I have found, what I am working on myself in writing or how a word looks or sounds. And it is authentic. I love words. I love to read and write and when kids feel that from me, they too want to be a part of that energy. It is infectious and it is not hard to get them to buy in as I ask them to repeat a word with me, a nice long juicy word like onomatopoeia, that they can take home with them and share with their families. “There is a world in a word,” Lev Vygotsky wrote and it’s up to us to open up those worlds.

Toting Libba Moore Grey’s, My Momma Had a Dancin’ Heart under my arm, I entered Emily Spear’s wonderful and familiar first grade classroom where I was greeted with hugs and an offer for one of those famous birthday cupcake that are handed to you with great love and grey grubby hands. I received the confection’s love, knowing it would never get eaten and smiling at the gesture.

I settled into the comfy rocker and had a brief time to reconnect as they told me about their latest ventures in writing. Voices rang all around me as they shared their latest “sound” words. Three little girls got closer and asked about the pink necklace I was wearing twirling it in their hands and marveling when I told them it was a crystal. “ooooh…you must be rich!”. I explained it was a gift from my sister and that SHE was the rich one because she had ME for a sister. They giggled.

Taking this time to connect with these kids is a critical part of the modeling process. It only took a few minutes, but in that time my words and actions showed them I was interested in THEM. This gives me an advantage because I have re-established our working relationship and can then move into our writing time together. I am reconnecting and we are exchanging trust in these small moments.

I read aloud, knowing that I wanted to model Moore’s use of playfully hyphenated words as a craft the kids could name and experiment with. I stopped and wrote some examples on the white board:

tip-tapping

song-singing

finger-snapping

We talked about these words and wondered why the author would use the hyphen. They quickly identified that it made it into one word, made the reader say the word more quickly and created rhythm. For each dance in the book I asked for a volunteer to get up and “perform” each season’s ballet. They were eager to move and the movement brought this story to life for all.

We then brainstormed a name for these words and the list consisted of

1.describing words

2. two words in one

3. DASH-ing words.

It was democratically decided that DASH-ing words described them most accurately because of the dash (hyphen) and use of the suffix ”ing” on the end of each word. And while some may be thinking this is not correct it is playful and something the kids will remember. Let’s just call it poetic license! Next, I asked them to go and try out some of the DASH-ing words in their own writing.

And the play began. Some kids came up with what we called Double DASH-ing words such as tweet-tweet-tweeting. Morgan, who I thought was struggling was left to her own thinking for some time and arrived at my side with this incredible poem:

Swish-swash

Slush-sliding

Icicles-banging

Against the long

White world

But the world

Is not always white

Wow! I just love the image of the long white world…

We all came back to the carpet, shared our DASH-ing words and created a chart with all of the examples the kids had come up with, creating a classroom “model” that they could refer back to and add to.

Photo Credit: http://recoveringyou.com/trusting-an-addict/

I left the room, again humbled at the brilliance of these kids and just what they can do if given the time, space, place and a model of what is possible. Trusting our students. What a concept and something we can all do, Dammit!!

Ramblings on Lobsters, Testing, Brownstones and Poetry over the John

Posted on May 7, 2013 by conversationeducation

One sticky New Hampshire July summer evening while hosting the annual lobster and clamfest for our UNH Summer Literacy Institute, Donald Murray was in the house. Now you must know that to have Don in my house was an honor. He was a man I had admired since I was an undergraduate and then here he was all hot and buttered fingers and faces on the back deck with the rest of us.

Donald Murray

And then it happened. He walked right up to me and asked, “Who wrote the poem, ‘Over the John’?” I froze. What? The ultimate test had come my way and as my face heated up and I began to sweat, I flipped through the suddenly empty files in my brain, wracking it for any poet I could think of. The words, who wrote Over the John? Over the John?, Over the John?, reverberated in my head. As I agonized I realized he was staring at me…waiting for an answer and so finally, in the ultimate defeat I simply admitted, “I don’t think I know that poem.” At which point Donald Murray let out a larger than life guffaw of a laugh and re-stated, “No, the poem over the john in the bathroom, who wrote that?”

And in my state of stunned stupidity it still took me a moment to actually realize that he was not testing me at all but simply asking me a question to which I knew the answer. “Oh! My daughter wrote that in 3^rd grade.” To which he responded that she was quite a little writer. And then he left me there in all of my shame to melt in my sense of stupidity. I hate tests. I have always hated tests and this was a self-imposed one. The pressure makes me stupid.

The “actual” poem over the john!

So what if we are all made stupider by tests? And if that is not the case then what about the some of us that are? I will admit it; I am one of the worlds worst test takers. When I see a question and then the 4 possible answers I try to think about the “right” one and while one might seem “more” or “less” right, I get stuck on imagining the possibilities of what “could” or “could not” be right. I see grey in a world of black and white. I stammer in the ideas that the test is probably trying to trick me and so I get obsessed with thinking about outwitting, outplaying, and outlasting the test. Yes, I want to be the sole Survivor, but I get too caught up in the game and then I simply freeze and ultimately I am blindsided and voted off the island. I lose.

This past weekend in NYC at Barnard (see previous post as well as here: Totalwebcasting.com/live/columbiatc/20130504/ for live on streaming) was eye opening on so many levels. It made me wonder about so many things…many of which have to do with testing and beyond. I heard stories, saw grown men weep, and felt passion so great it was palpable. I met people that I have only “known” on-line for the first time in person.

I was welcomed into Renee Dinnerstein’s (See her blog here: http://investigatingchoicetime.com/) home in Brooklyn…our first face to face meeting ever and she hosted me for 2 nights. We talked for all the time I was there. She introduced me to her husband, Simon and his incredible works of art that line their Brooklyn Brownstone and beyond. She took me to the public schools of NYC, gave me history of the area, of her life, the schools, the system. We visited an exhibit at the Brooklyn art museum by Anatsui, amazing!! Thank you Renee for your kind hospitality and for bringing together great minds for brunch where I also met Vicki Vinton, (See Vicki’s blog here: http://tomakeaprairie.wordpress.com/) on-line colleague, for the first time. But most of all I learned that I am not alone in this endeavor. There are so many of us out there who are so discouraged, outraged and ready to take action.

Tomasen and Renee at Anatsui exhibit

And while I was hoping to have a great post synthesizing the weekend, I realize I still have a great deal of processing to do.

And so as my 16-year-old Zachary heads out the door for his annual NECAP testing this morning he seems to be fine with it. Both of my kids are better test takers than I am. In fact, he enjoys the testing perks…early senior privileges and the fact that teachers are not allowed to give homework during testing because they want students performance to be stellar. (Is it just me or can you see how ironic this is?) Our schools are ready and willing to help students get more sleep FOR the tests, but not for everyday schooling. Sometimes I think I am crazy, or just looking for answers in my brain that are just not there. Am I asking the right questions? That is the real question, or am I just searching for something over the john?

You tell me.

The Joys of Teaching: Bringing Back the Poetry, the Puppetry and the People

Posted on April 1, 2013 by conversationeducation

“Imagination is more important than knowledge”

~Einstein

Sometimes life it just too much. Things come flying at you faster than you can handle and the goal becomes to just get through each and every day and to do the best that you can. In the midst of great busyness you check things of the list and move on. But at some point you stop and realize that you are not living as much as creating a record of living. I may be “doing”all of the mechanical movements to get through a day, but the mundane checks on the list mean very little in my life.

I believe that we get what we give, you know, karma and all of that great stuff. And as I read through my blog posts I realize how much power and energy I myself have given to the Common Core State Standards. So I decided to devote one entire class with my graduate students of teachers and devote it to the joys of teaching. I asked each teacher in my group to think about and come to class with a unit, an idea, collaboration, a lesson that they loved.

And I wish you could have felt the energy, the laughter, and yes even the tears that came out of this discussion. One teacher talked about how she had her students make toothpaste. Students would bring in ingredients that they then combined with baking soda and water. One teacher chimed in talking about how her daughter was in that class and how they brought in chocolate extract and how disgusting chocolate toothpaste was. She laughed at the great messiness and engagement and sheer joy in this experiment.

Others talked about great units they had planned with colleagues and how those units moved children. Another spoke of her grand puppet making and how those puppets were then used to create and show meaning within a social studies unit. I wish I could have bottled that energy…but there is no way to measure that energy so it is deemed useless. But at the same time it was the excitement behind the thinking that went into the planning and execution of these lessons, units and projects. And if these teachers were this excited just talking about them they you know the execution of them was the same…and that energy then becomes the energy of the classroom!

I talked about one of my all time favorite units when I was a third grade teacher in Barrington, NH. Our team created the most incredible unit on the history of Barrington. It included storytelling as we brought in the Calef’s and their descendents and neighbors who told great tales of the grist mills and the endless springs walking to school in feet of mud. And what incredible storytellers these elders were! Students would hear these stories and then research and read stories of their own to tell at a celebratory tea where parents and townspeople were invited to hear their stories. They were also asked to interview someone in the community and we compiled these interviews into books to be shared with the town. Every day was filled with Barrington history as I read through the town history book and uncovered more great tales to tell. The month long unit ended with the great town tour. This was more of a scavenger hunt really where we handed out riddle books with clues and questions. This book was their guide and they had to think to figure out where they were going. Small groups would pile into parents cars and off they would go to the Isinglass Riverbanks to the old schoolhouses, where they would be invited in and given a brief history. I can’t even tell you how much the townspeople welcomed our kids into their homes; some even made snacks and drinks in preparation for their day of visitors.

I have heard that parts of that unit actually still exist in Barrington Elementary, but that the big parts, like the town tour are no longer allowed because of liability. How sad that litigation gets in the way of good learning? Once again it is the checks that matter…no more unsafe driving conditions for kids. (Ironic if you have ever ridden on a school bus with no seatbelts really!) Never mind how beneficial that town tour was and how it connected the taxpayers to the students and was a starting point in bringing the town together, creating connections and community between the young and the old. What matters are the details (the devil lives there doesn’t he?) and all of the other minutiae that clog up each and every day.

And so after each teacher had a chance to talk about their joyful teaching we gathered into small groups and I asked these teachers to go through the Common Core State Standards and begin to plug in the standards that were actually covered in those units. In no time at all they were listing standard after standard. There is very little that is new in these standards but we are coming at it from the wrong direction. Why? Because there is money to be made by large corporations (Pearson) and why consult the experts in the field when you can have people who have nothing to do with education create what you need?

And so I ask, why don’t we spend more time in these joyful spaces talking about what we DO DO instead of always what we don’t do? Why can’t we bring back poetry, and puppetry and create spaces where people want to be? Why can’t we create thematic units where students look forward to 3^rd grade and the town tour almost as a right of passage? What is missing in the efforts to implement these standards is the whole. We are so concerned with each little increment and how to “cover” that small piece that we are not doing anything that is connected to anything else…the whole is gone…and without the whole there are just a bunch of pieces floating about randomly in space never to be connected.

And so I am going to attempt to remain in a place of joy through National Poetry Month. My goal is to read and write poetry each and every day of April. I will start today and each day I am with students, children and teachers I will have a poem in my pocket to share. Not so that I can check something off the list, but just for the sheer enJOYment of it.

I will leave you with one of my all time favorites:

The Summer Day by Mary Oliver

Who made the world?

Who made the swan, and the black bear?

Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean-

the one who has flung herself out of the grass,

the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,

who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-

who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.

Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.

Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

Conversation Education

Talking through what it means to lead a literate life and beyond.

Tag Archives: Poetry

Learning as a Deeply Personal Experience: On Teaching Readers and Writers

Reflections on Drama, Drama Worlds and the Land of Misfit Kids

The Power of Modeling, Connection, Trust and Play

Ramblings on Lobsters, Testing, Brownstones and Poetry over the John

The Joys of Teaching: Bringing Back the Poetry, the Puppetry and the People

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