Climbing Back up the Rabbit Hole

My dad often jokes that he was so poor growing up that he couldn't even pay attention. (Rimshot, if you please.)

As an educator with over 22 years of experience, I've seen quite a few students not paying attention--to a lesson, to each other, to life, to themselves.

I am also guilty myself of not paying attention. My list of side quests is quite extensive. For example, instead of writing a syllabus for a new class, I am am writing a blog post. I have also become quite adept at Retro Bowl lately. We all go down the rabbit hole every once in a while, right?

Taken from https://imgflip.com/memetemplate/242759032/Distracted-Student

This morning I gave my composition class a work day--they have a research essay draft due next week, and between answering their questions and helping them refine their research questions, I read. And as I am wont to do while I read, I share short passages that cause me to ponder.

From All Learning is Social and Emotional: Helping Students Develop Essential Skills for the Classroom and Beyond by Nancy Frey, Doug Fisher, and Dominique Smith (2019), I dug out this nugget:

"In truth, any person's sustained attention is punctuated with intermittent loss of focus. Things seem to pop into our minds out of nowhere, and then we're off task or off-topic. The skill of maintaining attention, then, is not about extending one's attention span but rather about choosing to return to a task after attention has been lost. It includes noticing when attention has faded and having strategies to bring it back to full strength. These strategies can be as simple as writing a note about the thing that popped into your head and then returning to the task at hand, or taking a breath and refocusing" (p. 72).

A nervous smattering of chuckles came from a couple groups who were "working together." One girl piped up to the others: "Teach just outted y'all!" They cackled for another minute, but then we began an earnest discussion about study habits and what they needed to stay focused.

Now this may not be revelatory to many, but I think it makes a lot of sense. Someone else can explain the science, but the use of strategic metacognition works wonders for me (when I want it to). However, I believe that most students need to have these types of skills taught to them explicitly. That may come in the form of a study skills class, or simply being aware of themselves and their tendencies to become distracted.

If I can train my students simple strategies to get themselves back on task, the possibilities are endless!

So I am asking you few readers, what are some strategies that you use to get yourself back on track, especially when the task at hand is an onerous one? What makes up your ladder to climb back up the rabbit hole?

Poem in Your Pocket 2020-Quarantine Edition

Hey. Can I share a poem with you? It's Poem in Your Pocket Day. 
#pocketpoem
#shelterinpoems

First, if you are not familiar with Poem in My Pocket Day, here are the rules:

1. Find a copy of your favorite poem...or at least one that you like...or has touched you recently...or whatever. Digital is fine, but it's more human if you print a copy or transcribe it by hand.

2. Carry it around in your pocket (at the ready) all day. You shouldn't have to search for it on your phone every time you pull it out.

3. Share your chosen poem with people throughout the day.

4. Relish the poetry of this world!

My selection this year came as I was contemplating my career move. I left the public school classroom to teach at the university level. Since then I have had several former students reconnect with me via social media. And so...this:

"Teacher Dreams"

Some nights
students return to me
like salmon to their spawning bed.
They shake my hand
and sit across from me
and tell me what they have done
what they will soon be doing.
I remember all their names
and just where each one sat
in my classroom.
Still, when they tell me
what they learned,
it's not what I remember teaching.

--Cecil W. Morris

(https://www.britannica.com/biography/Joe-DiMaggio)

This "teacher dream" conversation, as Mr. Morris phrases it, in my experience, is more of a reality than a dream. I have taught countless lessons to thousands of students over my twenty years in education, and I firmly believe that what I put into my lessons and what students receive is different. If I am prepared, each one of them will take what he or she needs as an individual for that day. That is why, as the great Joe DiMaggio said, "There is always some kid who maybe seeing me for the first [and I'll add last] time. I owe him my best."

(Oversimplified) Constructivist theory dictates that students will construct their own meaning from their personal experiences and social interactions. They will connect the new material presented to them to their own life experiences and learn and grow.

Sometimes, a student might be presented with adverbial clause exercises, reflective journal prompts, or even Shakespearean sonnets. And although she may not understand iambic pentameter or scratch out more than two lines about what she did over summer vacation, she still learns that she matters, she is safe, and she has ideas worth sharing. That is what teaching is all about--making a difference, building relationships, helping students learn for themselves.

I have had this conversation with many students at many levels. It is all worth it.

Check my Instagram @joeaveragewriter and Facebook pages soon for the video version of today's poem! 

Stolen Life Lesson: (1) Be There!

I was told at the beginning of my teaching career that an educator is only as good as he or she steals. I like to think of it now as community collaboration. Feel free to collaborate with me any time you want. Just remember to give credit where credit is due. As our class mantra went for my final year in the public classroom, “Own it.” If it’s not yours, cite it. 

Today I am stealing a list from Roxanna Elden’s book See Me After Class: Advice for Teachers by Teachers. It is entitled “Ten Principles of Successful Living We All Hope Students Learn from Us.” A long title but worth the read. Last term I shared it with a few sections of composition students as a writing prompt, and the ensuing discussion (not necessarily about composing) was somewhat enlightening for all parties involved. So…I am going to share them here and probably discuss one or two of them over the next little while, adding my own two or three cents worth of insight or hindsight or sight beyond sight for whatever it is worth. 

First, here is the list:

Ten Principles of Successful Living We All Hope Students Learn from Us

1.       Be where you’re supposed to be, on time and prepared.

2.       Follow all steps of directions.

3.       Think for yourself, and do the right thing even when no one is watching.

4.       Think about the future and how your present actions affect it.

5.       Take responsibility for your decisions.

6.       Search for solutions instead of complaining about problems.

7.       Show respect and expect respect back.

8.       Present yourself as an intelligent person.

9.       Produce a finished product that won’t need any explaining.

10.   Put more into the world than you take out.

Now that you have the entire list, I think I am going to break these down one point at a time with examples and non-examples of students, colleagues, friends, and many people generally winning (or not) at life.

                Warning: most of this will probably have an educational slant to it, but I guess that’s what I do, right?

                Let’s begin. Somewhat disjointed rant numero uno:

1.       Be where you’re supposed to be, on time and prepared.

Students need to be in class—on time and on task. Attendance breeds opportunities to learn. If not present, the same opportunities are not available. Yes, you can gain information and knowledge through self-study or observation or reading; however, an absent student misses discussions and social connections—critical elements of constructing meaning and learning. (See Dewey, Vygotsky, Bruner, Piaget, etc.) The interaction and application of said acquired knowledge cannot be replicated in the same way when a student is absent either physically or mentally.

                I have a student (at the university) who never attends class. He submits work online, but he is prone to all the pitfalls students who attend class avoid because we work together to succeed at the assignments and the learning. He, unfortunately, has chosen to shun the class and attempt everything on his own. Now, he is smart, but he does not know everything. Besides missing the attendance/participation part of his grade, me misses what we struggle through collectively as a class. He misses the comradery and collaborative community that we construct. He is not present to receive advice or encouragement from me or from his classmates, and it takes longer for him to catch up to where we are.

                Granted, the Fitness for Life class I took my sophomore year at Ricks College was different. The academic environment geared itself toward individual learning and testing. It was not a collaborative environment at all. To earn my grade, I just had to read the textbook and show up at the track when we ran the mile and at the testing center on occasion. The lecture had nothing to do with the grade or the learning. It was simply a lecture. (I got a B+ and only went to class three times that semester.) However, I believe this type of education is on its way out the door, especially in public schools. This is now the exception and not the rule.

Online education has its place, but it is an alternative to meet the needs of self-motivated learners. I have taught online courses both at the high school and the university level, and I will only say that these deliveries are not for everyone. If a student cannot motivate himself in an isolated setting, it will not go well for him. Even in these digital environments, interaction with an instructor and classmates increases and augments the learning. I will say it once more: you can only get so far in educating yourself.

                Showing up physically can only get you so far, though. You must be mentally present as well. Teachers know all too well that a student will never learn how to implement the quadratic equation or correct grammar in her writing if she is thinking about the cure boy sitting in front of her, or the drama call-backs after school, or the zit on her chin, or whether or not her dad will ever come back.

                There are so many possible distractions these days, especially with smartphones in almost every pocket. And I could rant on, but I digress for sake of your time and sanity. I also do not need to air all my laundry regarding student attendance. Regardless of the delivery method, the course, or the peers involved, attendance is mandatory for maximum learning.

Stay tuned for the next installment. It may come sooner than you think.

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.

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.

Teach Me How to Write a Poem

(This is to make up for December 27, 2013. See? I haven't forgotten.)

            At the beginning of the school year, I decided to host a poetry group during our school’s release time where students can come in and get extra help or participate in an enrichment activity. And to be honest, the results haven’t been too positive. The most students I get on a Thursday morning is two. Some days only one or the other will appear. Sometimes, I sit by myself and ponder what it would be like to stare out a window (since I have none) and petition the muses to club me over the head or drop me into the pit of inspiration. See also Billy Collins’s poem “Monday.”

            For the longest time, only one young man, a former student of mine, came in and we would discuss how to read poetry—where to breathe and emphasize words. He would ask for my suggestions on pieces he had written for his creative writing class. It was comfortable.

            Then one day, he didn’t come. Instead a small, bespectacled, or rather be-Coke-bottled, seventh grade girl squeaked in just as the bell rang. Feeling like a giant, I asked, “What can I do for you today? Are you looking for the study hall?”

            She crinkled her nose, pushed up her glasses, and stared me in the face. “Mr. Anson?” Pause. “Could you teach me how to write a poem?”

            I had no idea who she was or how she knew who I was.

            She blinked again—big eyes magnified by the big, black rims.

            “Sure,” I stammered, unsure of where to begin. “What kind of poem do you want to write? A haiku? I thought this was a logical place to start as my 9^th grade honors class was hosting the annual zombie haiku contest in conjunction with Halloween.

            “No. I want to write a good poem. How do I begin?”

            And begin we did, starting with a discussion on imagery, appealing to the five senses, and the use of figurative language. We discussed the fact that poems filled with empty emotion are only good for emo bands. We talked about avoiding tired phrases and images and looking at ordinary objects and situations from different perspectives. We talked more about form poetry versus free verse—the freedoms, limitations, and challenges of each. She sat, nodding in parts of my deluge of poetic spouting.

When she didn’t respond conversationally, I assumed she had drowned in the informational downpour. I supposed I should scale it back, so I asked what she wanted to write a poem about.

            Blink. Head tilt. “Morning,” she finally replied.

            I suggested framing a specific setting for the images, and she chose winter. We brainstormed a list of visual images: things you normally see in the morning, things you hear, smell, taste, or feel. I presumed she would want to write about Christmas morning or a school morning or some other cliché morning.

            “What is the first thing you associate with the morning?” I asked.

            Without hesitation, she replied, “Exhaust.”

            And that’s when I knew that she had been listening, absorbing everything that I had lectured not minutes before. It was impossible to conceal my grin. I felt it spreading like an accident down a toilet training toddler’s leg.

I know that I am not the wordsmith I would like to be, and that my poetry will probably never influence the masses, but in that moment, it was reconfirmed to me how powerful poetry can be. One simple image, one connected heartstring, one sliver of light cutting through the darkness can change your perspective or the direction from which the shadows are cast.

I wish someone would have taught me how to write a poem.