I know that my spring semester will be filled with staffing and ordering and checking and double checking the wonderful minutiae of opening a school. I also know I've been away from elementary curriculum in my district for a year, and by the time my school opens it could be two years unless I do something about it. So I've committed to attending any staff development, trainings, and meetings I can this fall.
And so I spent the last two days attending Katherine Bomer's retreat on the Power of Poetry for grades K-12.
But it felt like cheating. Since I still have some pretty big projects at Consol, there is kind of a large quantity of work on my desk. Large. Not lots of jobs, but a couple of them are pretty big. And I was off writing and having fun. I was also crying, drafting, revising, crying some more, scratching out, revising again. It was the emotional process of writing experienced through the incredibly well-crafted teaching of Ms. Bomer. I got to be the student.
When I entered the room and took a seat next to two friends and colleagues, Ms. Bomer came over and said she'd heard about me (probably because she has trained so often in CSISD). "You're a writer," she said.
"Whoa. I don't know if I'd go that far," I quickly, uncomfortably replied.
And by simply opening my mouth I learned my first lesson.
We want our kids to say it, loud and proud, "I am a writer!" But I wasn't even comfortable saying it myself. I taught writing for eight years to over 1,000 students and have published 330 posts on this site since May of 2008. I have a folder on my computer called "unpublishable" because it contains things that are too personal or stories that don't really belong to me even though I told them. And I can't call myself a writer? Then how do we get kids who are just learning to spell to call themselves writers? Angsty preteens? Anyone but Langston Hughes?
Lesson two was for me as a mother and for my son. Ms. Bomer read a poem aloud called "Talk" (I didn't write down the author's name and I didn't find it easily googleable, so I can't share it here). The narrator was a black man remembering a moment from childhood. He was in the locker room with a friend and teammate, and the friend used the "n" word. He didn't react, and as an adult he reflected on what that meant about him and his friend and what they became. It moved everyone in the room. We discussed, kind of argued, and shared about what this meant and why it was powerful. I shared that it made me think of my own son and his best friend. "I know that he knows not to use that word. I would be horrified if he did. But does he know," I asked the group, "that it's never okay? That he will never be friends enough with someone to make it okay because it shouldn't be?" It was the first time I felt my eyes swell.
This poem burdened me. Over lunch, I picked Tucker up from football camp and explained about the poem we had studied. I asked him if knew that the word was never okay. "Mom," he said matter-of-factly, "that word is racial. No one should say it. Ever." And I was proud of him.
And that's what literature should do. Teach us how to be better people. Remind us of the things we should talk about so that the bad part of history doesn't repeat itself. An appropriate level of discomfort is healthy and *gasp* educational.
I also learned a great deal about writer's notebooks, even though I've read about them and looked through other people's notebooks for years. I learned because I got one of my own. When I entered the training, I was offered my choice of wide or college rule (I chose college rule), and throughout the next two days I filled half of the notebook. HALF! It's almost unfathomable because I wasn't even trying. We talked about listening like poets. Making the effort to write down things people say and lines in poems that catch our attention. Alone they are sparks - the beginnings of what may die out and never leave the page or what may be a wildfire of creativity and ideas. This wasn't a result of hours of teaching, but of heart-felt modeling and guided practice (to use an educational term).
Some things I wrote down:
"But, of course, we were all lying."
"half tipsy with the wonder of being alive"
Aren't those lines fantastic!
We read and read and read poems, but there was no pressure to read them all or get to certain ones. My teacher made me feel perfectly comfortable judging a poem in its first few lines and choosing to put it down and pick another. We were encouraged to take pictures of the ones we liked best so that we could use them as our mentor texts. Then we re-read our chosen poems over and again and made notes in our writer's notebook about the images the poem conjured, the structure, whatever it was that made us pick it.
One of my mentor texts was "Great Things Have Happened" by Alden Nowlan. It reminded me of a bike ride I took on Sunday evening with a friend. I jotted some notes about that and moved on to find other mentor texts that spoke to me. This quick note ended up being one of my poems I took to the publishing stage.
We also did many "try- its" - 4-5 minute exercises to try that may generate ideas for poems. One of these was a persona poem (the author takes on the persona of someone else). I found this to be very difficult, and in discussing it with my group later I called it presumptuous to pretend you know enough about what another person goes through to take on their perspective. I stared into space for a good three minutes, then began to begrudgingly write. Surprisingly (to me at least), I also worked this poem into final draft form.
When I came back from lunch, I had a flash of memory from one day this summer when I helped a very dear friend pack her house to move. I thought of one phrase "limoncello and prosecco and raspberries and tears." I wrote that down quickly while listening to Ms. Bomer share poems and moved on.
The afternoon went by quickly. We wrote, we read poems, we had mini lessons about revision. I wrote down tips for revising that I hadn't thought of before. My teacher came over to confer with me about the poem I had been working on, and I think she was surprised to learn that I had been working on three. She asked me to choose one to celebrate at the end of the day, and I, of course, started to cry.
First I narrowed it down to the only one I thought I could read without choking up. Then she encouraged me to think through my choice. Ultimately, I chose the one that I found the most difficult to write. We talked it through. She very gently called my poem abstract and wondered if anyone would even know what it's about! I didn't think to be offended by this criticism because she was absolutely right. Then she drew on her experiences and gave me some suggestions on how to provide clarification. She referenced other authors who wrote in the abstract and talked aloud about how they made their text more accessible. I made notes. She went on to confer with someone else. My poem got better.
And so on these two days where it felt like I cheated work by going to a poetry retreat, I learned how to be better be an instructional leader on my campus. I decided to make a numbered list because I like those:
1) Teachers need to experience good, quality teaching. They know what it looks like, but they need regular opportunities to remember of what it feels like on the other side. Even the best teacher will grow. This means that professional development must be good. Really good.
2) The best teaching is short instruction and lots of time to work and wrestle with material. Frankly, I didn't even know it was happening until it was over. She talked. I listened. Made notes. Worked. It was powerful and meaningful and seemed effortless. (Workshop, anyone?)
3) I knew I and my work would get the teacher's undivided attention at some point during the day. I was one of the last people she conferred with but I very quickly understood that she would get to me. I had a few questions I thought of asking or things I wanted to share, but I was happy to keep them until she got to me because I knew she was coming.
4) As educators, we must be readers and writers and mathematicians and explorers and scientists. We must be it and we must claim it. We cannot expect this of our students if we're not willing to risk it ourselves.
And so, since I'm a writer, I'm now going to share my poems from today. Because I'm a writer. I don't normally write poetry, but writing is risky and writers are brave and they take risks. And I'm a writer. Here goes.
Sometimes (inspired by my try-it on the persona poem)
Lesson two was for me as a mother and for my son. Ms. Bomer read a poem aloud called "Talk" (I didn't write down the author's name and I didn't find it easily googleable, so I can't share it here). The narrator was a black man remembering a moment from childhood. He was in the locker room with a friend and teammate, and the friend used the "n" word. He didn't react, and as an adult he reflected on what that meant about him and his friend and what they became. It moved everyone in the room. We discussed, kind of argued, and shared about what this meant and why it was powerful. I shared that it made me think of my own son and his best friend. "I know that he knows not to use that word. I would be horrified if he did. But does he know," I asked the group, "that it's never okay? That he will never be friends enough with someone to make it okay because it shouldn't be?" It was the first time I felt my eyes swell.
This poem burdened me. Over lunch, I picked Tucker up from football camp and explained about the poem we had studied. I asked him if knew that the word was never okay. "Mom," he said matter-of-factly, "that word is racial. No one should say it. Ever." And I was proud of him.
And that's what literature should do. Teach us how to be better people. Remind us of the things we should talk about so that the bad part of history doesn't repeat itself. An appropriate level of discomfort is healthy and *gasp* educational.
I also learned a great deal about writer's notebooks, even though I've read about them and looked through other people's notebooks for years. I learned because I got one of my own. When I entered the training, I was offered my choice of wide or college rule (I chose college rule), and throughout the next two days I filled half of the notebook. HALF! It's almost unfathomable because I wasn't even trying. We talked about listening like poets. Making the effort to write down things people say and lines in poems that catch our attention. Alone they are sparks - the beginnings of what may die out and never leave the page or what may be a wildfire of creativity and ideas. This wasn't a result of hours of teaching, but of heart-felt modeling and guided practice (to use an educational term).
Some things I wrote down:
"But, of course, we were all lying."
"half tipsy with the wonder of being alive"
Aren't those lines fantastic!
We read and read and read poems, but there was no pressure to read them all or get to certain ones. My teacher made me feel perfectly comfortable judging a poem in its first few lines and choosing to put it down and pick another. We were encouraged to take pictures of the ones we liked best so that we could use them as our mentor texts. Then we re-read our chosen poems over and again and made notes in our writer's notebook about the images the poem conjured, the structure, whatever it was that made us pick it.
One of my mentor texts was "Great Things Have Happened" by Alden Nowlan. It reminded me of a bike ride I took on Sunday evening with a friend. I jotted some notes about that and moved on to find other mentor texts that spoke to me. This quick note ended up being one of my poems I took to the publishing stage.
We also did many "try- its" - 4-5 minute exercises to try that may generate ideas for poems. One of these was a persona poem (the author takes on the persona of someone else). I found this to be very difficult, and in discussing it with my group later I called it presumptuous to pretend you know enough about what another person goes through to take on their perspective. I stared into space for a good three minutes, then began to begrudgingly write. Surprisingly (to me at least), I also worked this poem into final draft form.
When I came back from lunch, I had a flash of memory from one day this summer when I helped a very dear friend pack her house to move. I thought of one phrase "limoncello and prosecco and raspberries and tears." I wrote that down quickly while listening to Ms. Bomer share poems and moved on.
The afternoon went by quickly. We wrote, we read poems, we had mini lessons about revision. I wrote down tips for revising that I hadn't thought of before. My teacher came over to confer with me about the poem I had been working on, and I think she was surprised to learn that I had been working on three. She asked me to choose one to celebrate at the end of the day, and I, of course, started to cry.
First I narrowed it down to the only one I thought I could read without choking up. Then she encouraged me to think through my choice. Ultimately, I chose the one that I found the most difficult to write. We talked it through. She very gently called my poem abstract and wondered if anyone would even know what it's about! I didn't think to be offended by this criticism because she was absolutely right. Then she drew on her experiences and gave me some suggestions on how to provide clarification. She referenced other authors who wrote in the abstract and talked aloud about how they made their text more accessible. I made notes. She went on to confer with someone else. My poem got better.
And so on these two days where it felt like I cheated work by going to a poetry retreat, I learned how to be better be an instructional leader on my campus. I decided to make a numbered list because I like those:
1) Teachers need to experience good, quality teaching. They know what it looks like, but they need regular opportunities to remember of what it feels like on the other side. Even the best teacher will grow. This means that professional development must be good. Really good.
2) The best teaching is short instruction and lots of time to work and wrestle with material. Frankly, I didn't even know it was happening until it was over. She talked. I listened. Made notes. Worked. It was powerful and meaningful and seemed effortless. (Workshop, anyone?)
3) I knew I and my work would get the teacher's undivided attention at some point during the day. I was one of the last people she conferred with but I very quickly understood that she would get to me. I had a few questions I thought of asking or things I wanted to share, but I was happy to keep them until she got to me because I knew she was coming.
4) As educators, we must be readers and writers and mathematicians and explorers and scientists. We must be it and we must claim it. We cannot expect this of our students if we're not willing to risk it ourselves.
And so, since I'm a writer, I'm now going to share my poems from today. Because I'm a writer. I don't normally write poetry, but writing is risky and writers are brave and they take risks. And I'm a writer. Here goes.
Sometimes (inspired by my try-it on the persona poem)
It's not personal.
Well, not anymore.
Sometimes people learn the hard way
Giving with nothing in return gets old fast --
or slow, in my case.
I'm not angry.
Well, not anymore.
I only wanted a chance.
You had one to give --
but you didn't.
Sometimes
You have to make the hard choice --
or the easy one
when it's all said and done.
Is it cliche to say,
"Take care of yourself before you can care for others"
like oxygen masks in an airplane?
I guess it's time I found out.
A Bike Ride Through Campus with a Friend on a Summer Sunday (inspired by a mentor text)
Familiar trees tent familiar sidewalks as a one hundred year old breeze dries our sweat;
The smell of our youth, dusty and old, wafts from around every turn;
We went looking long ago
And found ourselves here.
Architecture of the beginning, no longer scary and inaccessible.
Fear of looming failure, of being "unqualified" creeps toward me,
But there is no lump in my throat now.
No hastening of breath.
We race and laugh at our ownership of this place.
Warning of obstacles ahead,
Heeding the calls of friends too long silent,
Each avoided crash a reminder
of what began here.
Moving (inspired by life, yes I bleeped the bad word, it really was the title of the cookbook)
It was limoncello and prosecco
with ice and raspberries,
And tears,
And boxes,
And a garage sale pile.
It was a cookbook
(called something about b***hes and husbands),
And Traveling Pants,
And laughter.
It was old country music
blaring, singing along,
And more boxes,
And store-trips for bubble wrap.
It was staging,
And potential buyers,
And dusting unnoticed places.
It was packing a life into a box
to be opened
somewhere else.
It was the end,
but also the beginning.
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