Yet Another Reason Why We're Here

I found this draft while digging through a pile of notebooks as I cleaned up my classroom. It came from a Central Utah Writing Project One-Week Institute that I helped to facilitate four or five months ago.

(from 23 June 2015)

I just read “Funny You Should Ask” by Rick Reilly as our scribble prompt this morning, and I asked the participants to write literally or figuratively why we are here. I’ve personally written to this prompt many times—some of the better ones made it to the blog—and I’m not too sure I want to go down the same road.

This time, as I read the passage aloud, I made a different connection. Even though it’s a funny piece, I became emotional three times from the underlying subtle truths about existence and what really matters in finding happiness.

After the third emotional pause, I thought of the last time I did a scribble for a CUWP group—one where I laughed so hard that I cried as I read. And it hit me that students need to see teachers as real people, with real lives and real emotions. If we want them to open up and find connections with this life, with the literature, with each other, we need to be there on all levels. My classroom needs to run the gamut of human experience. Tears of all varieties should be shed. Laughter should permeate the atmosphere. Life, literature, and even 6^th period English on a Wednesday afternoon are meant to be enjoyed. Sorrows should be shared, excitement accepted, frustration understood. We are human beings having human experiences. 

Once, when reading from Choosing Up Sidesby John H. Ritter, I had a class become so emotionally invested that even the too-tough-for life jocks wept openly. After I finished reading the selection for the day, they just shared a few more moments of silence (see also The Chosen by Chaim Potok). No one said a word about the experience, and no one needed to. Afterward, in the hallways, on the streets, in the supermarkets, they (and I) would just look at each other and bob their heads and half-smile in acknowledgement that they shared something special.

Nothing says that once you are an adult, you can’t show your emotions. Nothing says that schools need to be filled with automatons plowing through curricular drudgery.

Reading and writing are about shared experiences. They are about life (see also Dead Poets Society), and the teacher needs to lead by example. I need not be afraid to show and be who I am. Most of us as teachers have passion for our content area and passion for learning. That passion needs to be shared. It’s one of the reasons why we’re here.

And you don’t have to be a teacher to share it.

A Little of What's Been on My Mind Lately

Don’t worry, I’m not going to preach to you today, but this post is somewhat philosophical. But it does have videos and links, so get your finger off that back button. Be ye warned, however, that I ramble.

In honor of one of the biggest flops on my blog—I point you to my endeavor of imparting vocabulary knowledge in December of December 2014—I’d like to start by defining a word:

ekphrasis: (noun) a literary commentary or description or reaction to a visual work of art

Mrs. Nielsen loves to have her students write ekphrastic poems after they have meandered through the art museum.

Despite purists who might debate my laxness in my expansion of this definition, I say that an ekphrastic work merely uses another’s medium as an influence, or a starting point, if you will. It can be the same medium, or it can be derived from a different type of art. And I am going to do just that. I’ve had bits and pieces of a few thoughts percolating in my head since April when I was reading Jennifer A. Nielsen’s concluding volume of her Ascendance Trilogy: The Shadow Throne.

See, Mumford and Sons had released a new single from their latest album Wilder Mind: “Believe” (March 2015), and it had started gaining airplay on Pandora and local radio stations quite rapidly. Its catchy, repetitive chorus hooked me, but as I soaked in the lyrics, I saw how they permeated everything I was reading with Jaron in The Shadow Throne. Not to divulge many spoilers, but the events of his young, tortured life—lost love, lost country, betrayal, broken promises—came to life for me as the lyrics cracked through my car speakers:

“I had the strangest feeling

Your world's not all it seems.

So tired of misconceiving,

What else this could've been?

“I don't even know if I believe [x3]

Everything you're trying to say to me.

“So open up my eyes.

Tell me I'm alive.

This is never gonna go our way

If I'm gonna have to guess what's on your mind.”

These lyrics and Jaron’s thoughts (and actions) became one resounding message about life: intentional and unintentional misdirection and deception may create many marvelous plot twists in this story, as they do throughout the series (See also Megan Whalen Turner’s Attolia [The Queen's Thief] series), but they really screw up real life. Miscommunication creates questions of loyalty, love, life, self-doubt, self-awareness, and the (un)fairness of life. So much turmoil and strife and uncertainty could be simplified with veritable communication. Why is it so hard to be honest? To speak truth? I wish I had tangible answers to share.

The music video for this song actually reminds me of a time when I was 15 and wandered aimlessly around London with some friends. Looking back, I wasn’t really sure where I fit into the grand scheme of life, or what I even stood for. It brought me back to that confusing, crazy, introspective time in my life—my own Bildungsroman, if you will. I was looking for truth. 

I could go on about the changes in tempo and volume and other symbolism about driving and maturing and such, but I’ll refrain from geeking out too much here.

After I finished that book, I picked up Walter Dean Myers’s Invasion, a story of a U.S. soldier about to land on Omaha Beach on D-Day. If you’ve read some of Myers’s other war stories, i.e., Fallen Angels or Sunrise over Fallujah, etc., you see similar coming-of-age themes. Josiah starts to question basic tenets of his life: his relationship with his family, a girl back home, and his platoon. The value of life and death, racism, and even the purpose behind the war itself begin to blur as the troops storm the beaches, cross mine fields, and encounter enemy resistance. Just like Mumford (and Sons), he doesn’t know if he believes everything people have tried to say to him in the past, in the present. The book weighs heavy with some of the aforementioned themes and places them on the same playing field as the inner turmoil Josiah has about the need to swear and act “like a man.”

Internal conflict, the essence of good, relatable characters (at least, for me) in fiction and in real life, helps define who we are. One of my all-time favorite novels, ChoosingUp Sides by John H. Ritter pits a preacher’s son against the beliefs his father preaches, his uncle’s life philosophies, what the star athlete and the cutest girl in school have said, and what he feels in his heart about good and evil, right and wrong, baseball, and life. This conflict is good, if we can deal with it, move on, and grow from the struggle as we redefine ourselves and our beliefs.

Sometime in May, the song came on the radio—it had hit the airplay saturation point by this time—and my innocent eight-year-old growled out loud (and punched the car door, much to her chagrin). “Rrrrrrrrrrggggh! I hate this song! I mean, how can you not know what you believe?”

Her frustrations have a point…if you have never stopped to question what you believe. I assert that each soul that dwells on this earth needs to come to know what he or she believes, and then live it. However, there comes a point when too much questioning hinders instead of refines one’s thoughts. Not to share any sensitive details, lets just say that I’ve seen too many associates (close and otherwise) lose their faith, their jobs, their families over vacillating too long over minutia attached to philosophies, practices, or doctrines. Dieter F. Uchtdorf, a wise ecclesiastical leader, recently pleaded, borrowing from F.F. Bosworth’s Christ the Healer, “Please, first doubt your doubts before you doubt your faith.”

To missionaries who are about to leave their families for two years to proselytize and share the gospel of Jesus Christ, I advise them to lose themselves in the work but to never lose themselves. Sometimes, though, we need to stop and step outside ourselves in order to find who we really are. Questioning what we really believe, or have been brought up to believe, helps to understand if we really believe and have the faith enough to do something about it.

Introspection and self-analysis are good common practice, as long as you wind up in a better place in the end. Recently, I attended an educational conference with a team from my school. The first keynote speaker was Diane Ravitch, an educator who had worked in Washington and promoted standardized testing and the like, but realized that what she believed about educational practices and what was working for students wasn’t true; she immediately went to work on the other side of the issue, saying that the evidence didn’t really turn out how she and several other experts predicted. Yong Zhao, another presenter, also presented the need for a major change in the way we look at education and the needs of students and society need to be reexamined. After listening to these two, I spent the next breakout session in a semi-comfortable overstuffed lobby chair making lists of my educational beliefs and what I needed to do to change my practice to fit my philosophies.

Needless to say, I also bought both their books. No, I haven’t finished them or become zealous disciples of their ways—I’m not ready to join the commune—but I found what they have to say intriguing. A big push in schools is for students to engage in critical thinking. I also deem it necessary for society to do the same when it comes to educational reform. There are many opinions and ideas floating out there—some more solidly grounded than others. And the more informed you are, the better decision you can make. Sometimes, it’s not a bad idea for teachers and administrators (and everyone) to reexamine their professional practices. I come back to the adage that you can teach for twenty-five years, or you can teach one year twenty-five times. Blech! I can’t do that. I get bored teaching the same thing a handful of times the same day. I change what I teach and how I teach depending on the needs of my current students.

I have always had different philosophies about testing and standards and what is best for students than what seems to be trending in the district or the nation. People who will remain nameless stopped inviting me to certain meetings after they found out where I stood and how I run my classroom. I also never drink the Kool-Aid. I don’t think that what I am doing is rebellious, impetuous, or crooked in any way. I just haven’t followed the sheep; I have stayed my own course—true to what I believe.

Even though our personalities and mannerisms are fairly different, I find myself in the same thought camp as Kelly Gallagher, who said (paraphrased, with my added slant) at a presentation he made a few years ago at BYU, that if you can take a student, and accept her with her abilities wherever they are when she walks in your classroom, and you give her the strategies and opportunities to read well, think well, and write well, she will do fine on standardized tests, or anything else that may arise from the legislature. Where some of my colleagues across the country bang their heads on black, metal filing cabinets or artificial wooden teacher desktops about testing scores, I do absolutely zero direct test prep and consistently have students who score at or above the average scores of the school, the district, and the state.

And so what started as an ekphrastic commentary about how Mumford and Sons connected with what I had been reading led me to question my own teaching philosophies and practices. As I stand on a precipice between two educational worlds: the public schools and upper academia, I also question what I believe. My doctoral work has forced me to look at myself through different theoretical frameworks as I approach my own research. Maybe I’ll share some of those findings one day (if anyone cares).

If you want a fun exercise for thought clarification, try NPR’s “This I Believe” segment. It can work with any age group and helps to clarify your beliefs about a particular subject. Maybe I’ll give it a try in the near future. But knowing me, I’ll probably write about my beliefs regarding bacon, haiku, or something obnoxious that nobody else cares about.

I don’t do things quite like I’m supposed to. That’s why I’ve moved on to X Ambassadors’ “Renegades.” 

Yeah, right.

Cannonball! (The Things Teachers Live For)

On days when the media rains hate on public school teachers, when legislation about education toils and troubles in the cauldron of those whose last moment in a public classroom was that afternoon they stepped out of high school back in June of 1960-whatever, when the elemental forces of standardized tests, national policy, and “merit” (everything out of my hands)-based pay combine to create the perfect storm of stress, apathy, and suicidal tendencies, I have to remember the small and simple things that make being an educator worth it.

Whether you believe it or not, you can look back and find an educator who has made some kind of difference in your life. Unfortunately, the teachers themselves usually never see the end products. They rarely discover just how much impact they have had on their students—just how far the concentric waves slosh over the tiled edge after they have cannonballed into life’s pool. And usually, most teachers go all-out, no holds back, as they scream like Ham Porter (from The Sandlot) into a career where others sit on the side and gawk at what these teachers have willingly done with their lives.    

Now I don’t want this rant to seem cynical or discouraging or like an anti-anti-educator bashing session. I just want to point out a few small things that make everything worth it, at least to me.

Earlier this week, I had the privilege to be assigned to accompany our 9^th graders up to the high school for orientation and a grand bout of rah rah hoopla pep talk and games-to-get-you-fired-up –or-next-year-and-fall-just-short-of-hazing assembly. It wasn’t a bad time—just very loud. At one point, a former honors student (I’ll call him W_____.) came up and put his arm around my shoulder.

“Mr. A, do you remember that A minus you gave me?”

I lied. (Honestly, teachers don’t remember everything; there’s only so much information and so many names you can cram into our craniums at one time.)

            “Well,” W_____ continued, “I just want you to know that you made the right choice. I didn’t deserve the A. I can see that now. Thank you. I learned a lot.” He looked at me, straight and seriously for a moment. I saw no guile. And with that, he ran off to be loud and obnoxious with his buddies.

            Last Friday, I was getting ready to pack up to go home. When I look up, J_____ (another former student) was standing in the doorway. I hadn’t seen him for at least three years. J_____ came to me as a 7^th grader and struggled somewhat with reading. He grumbled all the way through that year, but he improved. He was a likable enough guy, though, so I took him on as my TA as an 8^th grader and put him in charge of my library for a semester. By the time 9^th grade came around, he squeaked into my honors class. Yes, he still struggled, but he worked hard, often revising multiple times until he made a respectable grade.  That Friday he came to personally invite me to the opening of his mission call for the LDS church. I couldn’t attend due to previous obligations, but he told me (paraphrasing) that he wanted to come back to the junior high to make sure he reconnected with two of the teachers who made a difference in his life and helped him work toward his goals. I thought all my pestering just made his life miserable. (The other influence was his Spanish teacher. I tip my hat to you, Senor Moss.)

            Earlier this year I received this email from another student:

Mr. Anson,

My name is M_____, and once upon a time (okay, only two years ago) I was in your ninth grade honors English class. I am now a junior at SFHS, taking an AP Language course. I wanted to inform you that because of your teaching, I was able to proficiently compose a complete rhetorical essay in under forty minutes. I am grateful for the applicable lessons you taught me, and if you ever have students gripe about the demanding "timed writes", show them this email, and let them know that you are teaching them valuable stuff. Thanks for your hard work as an amazing English teacher. 

Her testimonial worked to inspire my current students and to inspire me. I held my head a little higher that day.

            I recently put out an email to former students who never got deleted from my Google contacts, asking for help with a presentation a colleague and I put together for the Utah Council of Teachers of English. I asked for them to reflect on the benefits of when teachers read aloud to students, either in my class or another. Within five days, I had over 60 responses, most packed with stories of reading activities from my classroom and titles of books we explored together, memories of the class itself; some shared how I helped them to find a book that they liked for the first time. One student reminded me of when a good portion of the class shed tears as I read aloud the climax of Choosing Up Sides by John H. Ritter. Keep in mind that I had them as 7^th, 8^th, or 9^th graders, and a couple had never finished a book on their own in their lives. (There are many ways to fake it, as we all know.)

            At that UCTE conference, I ran into two former students (M_____ and S_____) who had since become English teachers in different districts. S_____ sat next to me during a breakout session, excited to whisper that she was teaching The Diary of Anne Frank, and she was using some of the activities that I had her class engage in (role playing and reflective journal writing).

            The other day, I was scrolling through random blogs, and I happen upon another former student (J_____) who had reposted something from my own blog regarding poetry. As a ninth grader he claimed to abhor poetry with a passion. I also had no idea he knew I had a blog.

            These moments just happen, and like shooting stars, the burn brightly for a second—just long enough to brighten your day and fill you with a streak of hope and light before they fade away. Whether these shooting stars are Z_____ as I pull in to get my oil changed, A_____ at the credit union, K_____ at Wal-Mart, or A_____ and B_____ at church with their families, the seemingly trivial comments about what they got out of 8^th grade English many years ago make a lasting impression on me. They radiate back to me, and I catch a glimpse of what I have been trying to do for fifteen years: be a positive influence in the lives of students. Sometimes it has to do with the content of my class, but just as often it does not; it’s about how they felt and what they learned about life that radiates brighter than anything.

            Even when rough and ragged E_____, whom everyone thought would take up residency at the state prison after he dropped out of high school, saw me across the crazy environment of Jumpin’ Jacks and all its boisterous bounce house glory and made it a point to come and say hello and thank me for being a good teacher, made my day. I’ll admit that his beard and tattoos and three kids through me off as to who he was at first, but it didn’t matter. I’ll mix my metaphors here and simply say that the stars that I thought were fleeting still hung in the sky. The wave of my cannonball reverberated of the chipped pool wall and came washing back.

            I don’t share these bits to boast; I’m no better than the majority of underappreciated, underpaid educators in the world. I just want to share a glimpse of why I continue to do what I do. Regardless of what the legislature mandates, or how many parents rise in opposition, I still want to make a difference. Specifically, I want my students to become better readers, better writers, better thinkers; and as a result, better human beings. I feel the way about all public servants, but that’s another tale for another day. Small thank yous from the PTA or parents in the grocery store last longer than you think.

Most days I wish that after fifteen years in my profession and three university degrees, I didn’t (still) have to work a second job to maintain my family. Summers off? Whatever. I’m busier learning and teaching even more; sometimes they are busier than the days I’m in the classroom. For me, and educators everywhere, it’s these small and simple interactions and thank yous make all the media and parent criticism worth it.  that help us crawl up the ladder after a gut-shaking, tooth-jarring belly flop and hobble back to the edge of the pool only to jump back in for more.

Cannonball!

P.S. Take a moment. Look up one of your old teachers, or someone else who made an impression in your life. Call him. Write her an email, or an actual letter. Make someone’s day, someone who helped shape your life, someone who’s ripple of influence crashed into your life. Do it. I dare you.

Plug for WIFYR

I know I haven't written since my self-imposed penance lapsed. So what? I promise to post more later. I just need to put in a plug for the upcoming Writing & Illustrating For Young Readers conference. Unfortunately, I will not be able to attend--something about residence hours up in Logan or something like that. I've heard that grad professors actually prefer that you show up to class. Who knew?

But as my homey Nacho says, "anywhays"...I'm including a few tips for critiquing that I stole straight from the WIFYR site. Enjoy. Also, check out the website. I went several years ago, and (Yes, this is a testimonial.) I loved it. I took a class run by Chris Crowe and Carol Lynch Williams. Plus I was able to rub shoulders with several authors and editors. I even got to revert back to the goggle-eye-popping-hero-worshiping-autograph-seeking fan when I met and actually held several meaningful conversations with one of my favorite authors, John H. Ritter. Not since I was an elementary lad had I found myself speechless--a blubbering idiot--in front of an adult. In short, it was an awesome writing experience. So...register and take your writing to another level.

Getting the Most from the Conference:
Eleven Thoughts to a Better Critique

1. Listen. When you receive a critique in your writer's group, this is a time to listen and not speak. Just write down all the comments that have been given. You can think about these later and choose what to use in your rewrite.
2. Don't argue. You've paid a good amount of money to be here. This time you have with other writers-and especially ones who know about good writing-is valuable. Squeeze every penny from your payment by not wasting time during critique. Listen carefully to comments and do not argue your point.
3. You are not the boss of the four-hour morning sessions. The faculty leader is. Keep your comments to the point. Do not monopolize conversation. Do not interrupt. Remember this: Each person has paid to hear from the collective group and especially from the instructor-not from just one individual.
4. Do not beat a point into the ground: Once a point is made (Your character doesn't seem realistic in his conversation)-there is no reason to hash and rehash that statement for a writer. Give a strong example of how this bit of the story is not working, then move on.
5. Pay attention when others are being critiqued. Don't use time when others are being critiqued to write letters, excuse yourself from the room, or drift off into La-la land. Pay attention. What mistake are you making that someone else is? Can you use what you are hearing to improve your own writing? Some of the best help I have received on a manuscript is listening to my peers discuss the novel I'm working on-and then listening to them discuss what fellow members of the group are working on.
6. Give an example of how something might be improved. Like: "You could use a stronger verb here. Pummeled is a much stronger verb. Try that."
Grammatical errors do not need to be pointed out in class. Instead, mark these on the author's paper. In fact, writing comments on the page is excellent for the author.
7. Don't focus only on the negative. We want people to have hope about their stories. Say what works in the piece and what doesn't work. There is no need to say, "This is the stinky-est piece I have ever read." Even if it is the stinky-est piece you have read. There are nicer ways to show how to help one improve his or her writing. And I have seen people I never thought would publish make a huge amount of money from their writing. Be kind, but be honest.
8. But don't only sing praises for an author either. Everyone here should want to have a publishable manuscript underway by the time they leave this conference.
9. Only saying the good, and ignoring what is not working, is not effective.
10. Please remember we all like different things. Just because I don't write fantasy doesn't mean I don't enjoy a well-told fantasy tale. Do not let your personal opinion color your professional opinion.
11. And whatever you do-don't try to incorporate every single person's comment in your story. This is your work. Yours. So pick and choose. What will really help your manuscript succeed?