March

It's been six weeks since I returned to school. Okay, one week of that was February vacation, but the transition was a little bumpier than I expected. 5 am sure comes early when it isn't exactly on your own terms. Pembroke Academy welcomed me heartily. The student senate planned and directed an excellent winter carnival celebration. And I really like my students this semester.

I think the love I'm feeling for these hormonal youngsters isn't just because I'm so fried even a week off doesn't help. I think it's because I've changed what I'm doing in the classroom. I returned to room 1026 armed with advice from Penny Kittle, Kelly Gallagher, and the former librarian whose workshop on the latest YA (young adult) books I attended in November. This is what I'm doing instead of just assigning books to read, I've given my students the opportunity to choose what they read. My hair's been on fire but it's a blast.

This experiment has taken me back to my roots. I was hired for my first teaching job as a substitute/team teacher with the school's reading specialist. While she wanted to drill the kids in phonics and word root stems, I shared books with them. It was the stuff I was learning at UNH while working on my Master's degree. The kids were reading. That's what they needed to do to become better at it. It's still what they need to do.

Yes, the classics and cultural literacy and following the curriculum are important. And I'll get to them later in the semester. Right now I need to meet them on their own terms.  Right now they have to learn to make choices. Right now I need them to read.

Sadly, I haven't read much YA (young adult) literature in a few years. I'm a little behind, but catching up. And I've had a lot of help. Let me give a shout out to my school librarian Cristy Smith. She's been a great help-doing book talks, making topic lists, and finding things through inter library loan (Inter library loan! Who'd have thought! It's a marvel.).

I've read Exit, Pursued by A Bear,  two of Jason Reynolds novels, and reread a couple of books by Patricia McCormick.

Today, International Women's Day, a day when many marched together in solidarity and love, I need to share with you a great trilogy that Cristy found for me.  It's March, by John Lewis, Andrew Aydin, and Nate Powell. It's Representative John Lewis' memoir. And it's an awesome graphic novel.

Before you pooh-pooh it with the "I don't read comic books" nonsense, check it out the next time you are in a library or bookstore. It has those classic comic book illustrations. They will take your breath away.

Lewis grew up in Alabama. He came to understand the path of nonviolence through a comic book written about Martin Luther King Jr. He joined the movement. He's now part of history. The text and art work show the historical moments in a personal, human way. Somehow, it seems more real than it would be if you read just prose. That means it isn't always easy reading but it is compelling and accessible. I hope my students, and you, enjoy it as much.

Here is John Lewis in on Bloody Sunday in 1965 and at Comic Con in 2016.

                                    

Here's a review.

Mind Blown

My sabbatical ended on Wednesday. Although I have yet to fully reflect on my time away from work, I can say with certainty it was worth it. My advice to those who may have a similar opportunity? Take advantage of it! When was the last time you had a chance to explore the things that you are passionate about? When was the last time you pushed yourself, really, to focus on your art, your craft, your body, or your mind? You remember what the ad said, Just Do It!

The start of every semester brings a mixture of angst, anxiety, excitement, and quite honestly, fear. I think I spend more time agonizing over my prospectus for each class than I do the first week's lessons. Yesterday morning was no different. I couldn't remember what time to leave the house, I had to borrow a key to get into the teacher's room. I kept losing my class rosters. Luckily, I work at a great school. It was wonderful to hear so many people welcome me back. Best of all, were the kids. Many stopped by my room to say hello. Some had wide smiles when they recognized me in the hall. There's almost nothing better than having a teenager recognize you for you.  

But then today the truly remarkable happened.

Before we get there, let me tell you how I'm approaching this semester.  I want my students to read and write more. We need our students to read and write more. The focus this semester must be about what is best for them as learners. My plan for the first four weeks, for all my classes, is to have them read independent books each night for homework (this idea I stole from Penny Kittle and is one that we must spread further). We'll read common texts and write when we are in class. The reading we do in class needs to be short because of our time constraints. The short text default for me is poetry. You're groaning; I know. Stick with me just a moment longer.

I receive daily emails from poets.org. Poetry Out Loud, Poetry 180, and the Poetry Foundation are organizations I rely on as both a teacher and a writer. When I went looking for poems to start the semester, I found many lists. Lists of poems about America. Lists of poems in preparation for black history month. And lists of poems about protest and resistance. I took comfort in the open arms the community had for my return.Yet I wanted to read and discuss a poem on day one? No wonder I have a reputation for being a hard ass. No wonder I felt fear.

Somewhere, on one of the lists, I found my way to William Stafford. His writing is lovely. His poems are simple and complex. Beautiful and haunting. Here's the first I shared with my kids:

At the Bomb Testing Site

Related Poem Content Details

BY WILLIAM E. STAFFORD

At noon in the desert a panting lizard   

waited for history, its elbows tense,   

watching the curve of a particular road   

as if something might happen. 

It was looking at something farther off   

than people could see, an important scene   

acted in stone for little selves 

at the flute end of consequences. 

There was just a continent without much on it   

under a sky that never cared less.   

Ready for a change, the elbows waited.   

The hands gripped hard on the desert.

William Stafford, “At the Bomb Testing Site” from Ask Me: 100 Essential Poems. Copyright © 1960 by William Stafford. Reprinted with the permission of Graywolf Press, St. Paul, Minnesota, www.graywolfpress.org.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/42777#poem

While discussing this gem, my students said things like:

I think this has to do with the Manhattan Project.

Lizards have been around a long time.

Is the continent Antarctica?

What is the flute end?

Instead of acted in stone, things are usually etched in stone. Is this the first of something?

I think the continent is the world of atomic science.

It's the beginning of the end.

As I told my mom tonight, if I have to go to work each day this is the job I'll take. Lovely. Simple and complex. Beautiful and haunting. 

                                        

Years ago, I had a conversation about having children with the wife of a close friend. They'd decided to wait. They were in their late thirties when their daughter and son came along. She told me that motherhood included "the bitter and the sweet." As you can see, I've not forgotten that observation.

Something I'm most thankful for are the relationships from my childhood and adolescence. Many of us stay in touch regularly. That's a credit to our families and community.

Here's a poem I've been tinkering with since this summer:

The Bitter and The Sweet

At a party with childhood friends

whose kids were older than my boy,
nearly grown,

I sought reassurance.

It all works out, one friend repeated,
it all works out.

She left to find the kitchen.

Her birthmother, overhearing the talk,

asked about the context of the conversation.

It was me; I was asking.

Exhaling relief,

she admonished me
to embrace all that motherhood brings.

"It's a blessing."

Another friend,

     whose own mother sent her cross country to live with grandparents,

chortled.

Some counsel.
What does she know?

Motherhood is disappointments and difficulties,

heartbreak all the time.

Painting Credit: http://jessietownsdin.blogspot.com/2013/09/bittersweet-vine.html
Photo Credit: http://twitpic.com/55kpkr

History and Heroes



Yesterday my friend Tim stopped by to despair. Tim is not the despairing type. He's usually calm, measured, unconventionally sane. It was unsettling. When things in the world become crazy, I look to him as a guide toward what is reasonable. And right. Yesterday he was hard pressed to find those things. While our cat Fuzzy basked in his affections, we talked. The possibilities are bad. Can he put those ideas into law? Things look like Wiemar Germany.

Finally, we came around to the situation here in New Hampshire. It's not so bad, he suggested. The governor-elect seems reasonable... After an hour, he left to go join colleagues at the Granite State Progress. He figured he'd rant some more with them, but then begin to think about their next steps.

I succumbed to the screen.

In the early hours of Wednesday morning, when I was certain I'd dreamt my brother's text of "President Trump" was some sort of nasty joke, I vowed I would not turn on the television, radio, or check social media until the after school hours. I sat at my desk, surrounded by writing materials. I struggled to write a sentence.

At lunch I caved. I picked up my phone and did the usual. Email: Nothing of interest. Newspaper: I couldn't watch Trump's acceptance speech. I looked at the voting maps. Read some of the stats. Took note of which editorials to go back to later. I did watch Hillary's graceful concession. And then, Facebook: Some sadness. Some despair. Some words that were encouraging and filled with hope.

Over at the Paris Review, Dan Piepenbring had this to say: "... I don’t want to add to the chorus of despair, because I do believe there’s a role for art at a time like this, and I don’t say that lightly—words like these don’t come easily to me. I would rather make fun of things, and I’m struggling against an inborn fatalism...The creative impulse is such a fragile thing, but we have to create now. We owe it to ourselves to do the work. I want to encourage you. If you aspire to write, put aside all the niceties and sureties about what art should be and write something that makes the scales fall from our eyes...write to destroy complacency, to rattle people, to help people, first and foremost yourself. Lodge your ideas like glass shards in the minds of everyone who would have you believe there’s no hope. And read, as often and as violently as you can. If you have friends, as I do, who tacitly believe that it’s too much of a chore to read a book, just one fucking book, from start to finish, smash every LCD they own. This is an opportunity. There’s too much at stake now to pretend that everything is okay."

And my big sister Sharon said, "...So I will take a step to the right and the left, inhale deeply, pick up my head and do what I do best! I will choose to create..."

I went back to the writing desk, filling the page with notes and ideas. 

On the way to pick up Cameron, I listened to Terri Gross interview James Fallows on Fresh Air. Fallows writes for The Atlantic. Along with his wife, Deborah Fallows, Fallows has "made numerous trips flying around the country in their single-engine propeller plane - he's a pilot - stopping in small cities and towns that are suffering from some kind of economic, political, environmental or other hardship so that they could talk with people about the issues that are having an impact on their lives." It's called the American Futures Project. What he and his wife have discovered, and what we need to shout from the rooftops, is that this vision of America falling to pieces and being an absolute shit hole does not exist in the places they've visited. Places where you might expect it to be so. If you ask people, he said, they will tell you things are good in their community. Things are progressing in a positive way.

I believe that is the truth for us here in New Hampshire. And because that is our truth, we have an obligation to share it. We have an obligation to maintain it. And we have an obligation to teach people how to get it.

We do not have to look far to see that many people are gathering themselves up with a renewed purpose for their work. This is what will sustain us. This is what will get us through the dark days. Think about those people who lift you up. Surround yourself with them. Remember that hard work feels good. Get involved. Pick up your pen (or whatever sword works best for you).

Today I recognize and thank some of the people I see working hard, fighting the good fight. (If you feel compelled, share who you see working with us in the comments section)

Thank-you Matt B. for the lovely words of peace and reconciliation on Facebook.

Thank-you Amy P. for keeping your classroom door open to ease the anxiety and fear of your students.

Thank-you Nate G. for minding the ship while I'm not really just sitting on the couch, but wrestling with ideas and words. Thanks also for reminding us of the power of poetry. While I don't want to think about the beast that slouched toward Bethlehem  after World War I or the one that is on its way, I know that there is energy in the anxiety we feel and we must harness that force to move forward. (Shout out to Mike Reardon, where ever you are!)

Thank you Tom White and the Cohen Center for the teachers you nurture, the programs you develop and the history we must always remember.

Thank you Ben Fountain author of the funny book Billy Lynn's Long Halftime Walk (which is opening in theaters tomorrow  as directed by the brilliant Ang Lee)  and for your articles at the Guardian, especially The Big Con. With a cringe and wince you've reminded me of the few days I spent at Bennington when my political science teacher Gail Russell assigned Robert Caro's first book about LBJ, The Path to Power. I didn't know how to read it then but it makes perfect sense now (as does Gail's advice to keep trying even though I failed her class). The New Deal, in part, is why I am able to sit here today to write instead of being at my work desk grading papers. The social contract developed at that time affords me this opportunity. It is, in part, what I think, many of Trump's supporters are angry about but don't know that they need. It must be preserved.

This afternoon Cam and I will make some paper poppies. Because, as if we need a marker to recall this week, tomorrow is Veteran's/Remembrance/Armistice Day. A day that dozens of countries commemorate. We'll create something together. We'll sing about not "missing our shot" and about being "young, scrappy, and hungry." We'll laugh at silly cartoons. We'll read some books. And tomorrow we'll give thanks and remember those who sacrificed their lives for this great experiment of a country.

Christmas and Change

From December...




I ran into a coworker yesterday and when I asked him how Christmas was he went on this tirade about rushing around, commericalism, blah, blah. It was a worn out story he told. One I wasn't interested in hearing. I wish I'd said to him, "why not do something different and change it?" Christmas felt like that for me for many years. Rush to the mall, buy this stuff, and then do a marathon of visits over twenty four hours. It was because of the choices I made that Christmas felt commercialized and miserable. When I did it differently, Christmas took on a whole new meaning.

Part of the problem back then were the expectations I had and those that I thought were placed upon me. I was married to a different guy and we never took the opportunity to really do what we wanted to do. Each holiday (and birthday) we had to spend time with family. That in itself wasn't bad but it created lots of restrictions. We lived in a shoebox and could never have people over. His sister's children were young then, so meals and whatnot revolved around their schedule. And there was always this unwritten understanding that things went like this because if we did it any differently the whole house of cards would come crashing down. There was always some underlying tension that I never learned the source of. It made for strange days.

The house of cards that eventually fell was ours and the marriage ended. It was that last Christmas we spent together that we finally did something we wanted. Well, it was what he wanted-he slept all morning, then we went to his parents' and only upon returning home later that evening did we "celebrate." We opened gifts in silence and I went to bed. Lights out.

Never again, I knew. I took the lead from my sister whose husband had died unexpectedly several years before. She turned Christmas on its head and began to travel each year. The first few difficult years she visited her college roommate. They explored several national parks out west-New Mexico, Utah, and Washington. Then our niece went to Hawaii for six months. A perfect opportunity for both of us.

We all know what traveling can do for you. Yes, there's anxiety and stress. But once you've got your toes in the sand it's magnificent. On Christmas morning that year we exchanged silly gifts, took funny pictures of ourselves and had a great breakfast. We walked to the beach. We took a hike.  And then our niece made dinner for us and all the other interns who worked with her that winter. It was balmy. It was fun.

I spent Christmas at the same sister's house the next year. Not as remote as Hawaii, but a change anyway. That was what mattered, doing something different. We had Christmas Eve dinner with her boyfriend and played board games. That night we stayed up late finishing a ridiculous Red Sox scrapbook she'd started for him. We were in over our heads but who hasn't spent at least one Christmas Eve staying up late putting together some gift for your kid or boyfriend? Wine and laughter got us to the end.

If I couldn't go some place out of the ordinary, then, I decided, I found gifts that were different. I'm a teacher. And a single teacher doesn't have much of a budget during the holiday season.  I started taking the time to find gifts that would stand out. That meant I had to shop some place other than the mall. Instead of doing the sullen shuffle from Best Buy to Macy's and back, I realized I could support my local community while buying gifts for the people who meant something to me. Gold star for me!

Books are my default gift and the locally owned bookstore is the place I always begin my shopping. It is my firm belief that you can never have too many books. Buying books is such a personal endeavor. But what a challenge to buy something just right for a person. I took that same attitude toward other gifts. Shopping for others became fun. I bought based on what I understand of the person, not what they should have or specifically asked for.

On that excursion I took the time to walk from shop to shop. Instead of sitting in traffic trying to get off the highway or rushing to buy the last and latest widget, I found a few small things that I thought people would appreciate. Walking down Main Street with packages nestled within bags was enjoyable. Yes, it was a cold and damp day, but what a better choice it was than doing something because I felt I had to or because it was expected of me.

As dorky as all this sounds, this change in attitude has made the holdidays more fun. There's a real reason we have time off, celebrating the season, celebrating each other, giving.

Reading Rut

I need some help. I'm in a reading rut. Got any good books you can recommend? I hate when this happens. Like most readers, I've got a pile of books by my bed. There's a pile next to my desk at home and even a few on my desk at work, but I can't find anything stimulating or engrossing to read. I've wandered the aisles at my local bookstore and come up empty handed. Help!

2010 was not a great reading year for me. The first half of the year I returned to work and had all I could do to survive each day. Managing baby, job and life left me clueless about new books. I did finish
The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo trilogy. What characters! I could excuse the ridiculous details because Lisbeth and Mikael were fascinating. My curiosity about what they were doing and why kept me reading at a good clip.

What I did for summer reading, I haven't a clue!  I know that in the fall I read Better, by Atul Gawande and also read Mister. Pip. I wanted Mister Pip to be better than it was. The setting was luscious, but I kept waiting for more to happen. It did, however, send me back to Great Expectations, a little bit.  I couldn't commit to wading into it deeply. I let being back to work suck the energy out of me.

By the end of the year I'd started Freedom. Sucker that I am, I bought it in hard cover. I could have picked up two other books for the price of that tome. I'm halfway through and  may just have to go back it; I'm so desperate for something to read. But part of me feels duped. The reviewer in the Atlantic wasn't a fan of the book either. He commented that for every contemporary book we choose to read, that's one classic we're not reading. Time to revisit the Bennetts or return to Pip? These long winter nights are perfect for long novels.

It's been awhile since I've reread anything. Perhaps that is the route I need to take.

I need a book with a strong voice, something that grabs me on the first page. Patti Smith did it; I finished Just Kids last night. Those of you who can remember feeling that you just may be able to take on the world with your art or your talent will recognize her voice. And those of you whoever doubted that you were making the right choices with your life will recognize her as well. To think the mother of punk rock once felt insecure... Her relationship with Mapplethorpe was beautiful. How lucky for her to have had him as a friend.

Never Let Me Go was excellent. I read that before the holidays. What I enjoyed about it was the premise, the idea that was always present in the story but Ishiguro artfully avoids mentioning. It did haunt me. I'd read it before falling asleep, then dream about walking down windswept rainy streets with the characters. It took some time to read because it affected me so. Ishiguro's writing is so filled with melancholy. He renders a truth that is painful to stay with for long periods of time but hard to leave. Does that make sense?

I also need a character, or two. A colleague lent me Dennis Lehane's first novel with Patrick Kenzie and Angela Gennaro, A Drink Before the War. Patrick and Angie are the detectives Ben Afleck made famous in "Gone, Baby Gone." That is actually the fourth or fifth book in the series. They are characters, all right, but the frankness of their reality is a little too much. Part of the problem may have been that I was reading the book around the time that I watched "The Town." Maybe I'm just a wimp.

Here's what I'm looking for: a story with characters who have strong voices. A story that sticks with me but doesn't haunt me. A great story with a surprise, or two, that makes me think for a bit. Got something to fit the bill?

The Toughest Job

My dad turned eighty last month. Eighty! It doesn't seem as old as it once did, especially now that I am half way there. Imagine all the memories and experience you'll have when you reach that age. No wonder he's so forgetful! Since Cameron arrived we've seen a lot more of Dad. He likes the little guy and seems honestly thrilled by all that Cam does. I think he's forgotten how babies develop. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised by that; it's been about forty years since he's lived with a baby. Maybe it's just his old age. Or maybe it's just the fact that human life really is miraculous.

I hope I don't sound too maudlin or cliche when I say I understand better what Dad, and Mom, must have gone through while raising my siblings and me. How they did it is still a mystery to me. Being a parent just blows the socks off of any other experience I've had. While I was pregnant I worried about how I would manage the constant buzz of anxiety I was certain I'd feel once the baby arrived. A year later I have to say that the buzz it overwhelmed by exhaustion. If I ever manage to "catch up" on some sleep and become emotionally rested, then I'm sure the anxiety will come back. Until then, I just hope I'm not too tired to miss what's important.

This past week at work I've been discussing "character" with my students. The kids are writing short essays about what a good father is. It's kind of funny, the things they say. This class is mostly 14 year-old boys.

We started the process by using a lesson that asks them to rank fathers based on brief character descriptions. One father was a strict police officer, another was something like Tiger Woods' father and another was a cool dad who took his kid to concerts and never made him do homework. I did the lesson without much preparation but knew intuitively that it would yield some great stuff.

Our discussion began with me asking the kids which father they liked best. Their choice wasn't hard to predict. They liked the cool dad, the one who blamed the school for his kid's bad grades. In turn, they also liked the father of the narrator from Tobias Wolf's short story "Powder." He sneaks his son into a nightclub to see Thelonious Monk and drives in an English sportscar down a mountain road that's closed due to a snowstorm. I suppose their position, their status requires them to initially say, in front of their peers, that the cool dad is best.

"But, really?" I asked.

We reread the descriptions and charted the qualities. Seeing it up on the whiteboard, in front of them, clarified a few things. The cool thing about the cool dad was that he spent time with his kid. He tried to have a relationship. And the good thing about the strict dad was that he was protecting his kid. And the dad who mortgaged his house to support his daughter's athletic talent, he took a risk in an effort to secure her future. They were impressed by those qualities.

I then wondered, were they able to take it to the next step? To see what their fathers really do for them? When it came time to write about their fathers some of them really struggled. One boy said, "my dad never plays catch with me." And another said, "my dad really isn't a good father." Instead of writing about his own dad, one student decided to write about his best friend's father. That father had more positive qualities than his own.

A former colleague believed that teaching coming of age stories to high school students didn't work. He thought because they were in the midst of it, coming of age, that they couldn't really know the significance or importance of what they were going through. That, in part, they didn't have the distance required to reflect on the experience. I always argued that the students could at least connect to the story and relationship. Maybe they couldn't see the larger significance, but to connect to a character is huge.

I'm sure, the fathers of these guys aren't as bad as they think. (I'm still naive enough to hope that anyway.) They'll figure out some things with a little more reflecting and writing. It took my sqawking infant son to make me realize that the important relationships require maintenance. And sometimes, that's damn hard work. But the effort, always has to count for a little something. Doesn't it?