See Jane...See Jane Run...See Jane read???

I have come to the conclusion that I do not teach reading, never have, and probably never will in a secondary classroom. Yet, this is the language I use in my classroom. Read Poe’s The Tell Tale Heart. Read the first 100 lines of Beowulf. Read Chapter 12 of The Scarlet Letter. And, I have also come to the conclusion that my students are really doing exactly what I am asking of them. So, herein lies the problem. What I mean by “reading” and what my students mean by “reading” are two very different things.

When I looked up “reading” in the dictionary, 16 definitions were listed. Among them: “to utter or render aloud,” “to examine and grasp the meaning of,” “to foretell or predict,” “to learn or get knowledge from something written or printed.” And the list goes on. Whether noun or verb, what we are demanding from our students needs to be more clearly defined if we want the results.

I guess by reading, my students are probably more inclined to adopt the definition that involves uttering sound as opposed to thinking critically. But I don’t blame them. That was what “reading” was when they were younger—matching the spelling of words with the phonetic pronunciation.

Now, at the secondary level, when I assign a “reading assignment” I am really asking my students to critically interpret a text. I think I am teaching them strategies to do this; I mean, that has always been my objective. But, I also fully realize that there is in fact a gap between what I want my students to accomplish with a text and what they actually do with it.

Maybe our different definitions of reading and literacy contribute to the problem. Perhaps it’s time that we start truly defining what it means to read or to interpret a text if we ever hope to narrow the gap.

“A woman, without her man, is nothing. A woman: without her, man is nothing.”

A panda walks into a café. He orders a sandwich, eats it, then draws a gun and fires two shots into the air.
“Why?” asks the confused waiter, as the panda makes towards the exit. The panda produces a badly punctuated wildlife manual and tosses it over his shoulder.
“I’m a panda,” he says at the door. “Look it up.”
The waiter turns to the relevant entry and, sure enough, finds as explanation.
“Panda. Large black-and-white bear-like mammal, native to China. Eats, shoots and leaves.”

Lynne Truss uses this anecdote about the “dangers” of misusing punctuation in her aptly titled book, Eats, Shoots and Leaves. A self-named “stickler for punctuation,” Truss wittingly addresses the world’s digression from using the “proper” rules of grammar and language. I enjoyed the book, being able to relate to her “grammar rants.” I mean, she’s right. Every language has rules, and in order to have full command of the language, one must use the rules properly. Take Truss’ example of the power of punctuation:
1. “A woman, without her man, is nothing.”
2. “A woman: without her, man is nothing.”
The wording remains the same, but the usage of punctuation bears significant weight in meaning.

So, as an English teacher, a supposed “master” of the English language, I feel obligated to correct my students’ grammar foibles in both speech and in writing. My motives are pure intended: I want them to sound academic and intelligent. However, the “linguist” in me has to recognize the other side of the coin. Do I assume that when my students do not use the correct rules of English grammar that they are lazy, or ignorant, or stupid? What could be other causes? What about socio-economic or racial or cultural factors? America is known for its diversity; thus, as teachers, should we not take that into consideration? It seems like now more than ever America is classified into the “Haves” and the “Have Nots” and Standard American English rules and correct usage definitely play a role in determining what group we fit into.

So, while Lynne Truss may have been in jest when referring to punctuation and grammar as a “life and death” situation, the reality is that how we speak and how we write is a reflection of our work ethic, intelligence, and overall competency. The problem, then, is how this is addressed in the classroom. Once again, back to the drawing board.

The Art of Questioning

I would never wish upon my worst enemy (if I had one in the first place) the trials and tribulations of a first year teacher. It is such an uncertain time, in every sense of the word. I remember doubting myself, my choice of profession, my knowledge of my content area, my ability to gain respect from my students, my ability, in turn, to respect them, and, in general, my capacity to reach my students and make a difference—just to name a few. Four years later, some of my doubts have been laid to rest. For example, I am positive that no other job, at this time of my life, could bring me as much happiness. I feel like I have been called to do what I do, and I am grateful to have answered it. That said, not all of the questions, concerns, and doubts of my first few years of teaching are answered. Teachers, decent ones anyways, seem to naturally adopt a certain “trial and error” mentality that is attached to our “call of duty.” We are constantly questioning our lesson plans, methods, our overall effectiveness and success of our students. What worked? What didn’t? Why?

My English 530 professor recently assigned articles that addressed the need for teachers to question and conduct their own research in the classroom, and I couldn’t agree more. Most teachers recognize that in order to best service our students, we cannot rely on standardized testing and “Gold Star” research methods that turns our students into numbers, and blankets individual needs and diversity. In an age of “No Child Left Behind” the American public is closer and closer to relying solely on these means to understand how our students learn instead of recognizing and validating the voice of the teacher, who, above anyone, knows in turn the voices of the students. Like our students, teachers have a story to tell. The issue is that a)will teachers continue to question and seek methods of finding answers and b)will the public choose to listen.

I feel a bit lost at this point of my research, and the scary part is that I know that in many ways, this stage will be the easiest. But, where do I start? There are so many topics that I would like to pursue. Are students still profiting from “canonized” classics? Do the “Westernized” classics contradict our push for a diverse, multicultural curriculum? I have a feeling that most students graduate from high school without ever having fully read a novel—if this is true, how come? Why is it that students are just not reading and/or comprehending? How has technology limited literacy? How can I use both literature and writing to truly impact my students? So many questions….so little time. But, this is just the beginning. ..

Defining Adolescence

What does it mean to be an adolescent? It seems like a simple question on the surface that renders an equally simple response. However, here lies the problem. Like the question itself, the definition of adolescence is complex and, in many ways, subjective. Most would agree that adolescence is a “life stage” that is an essential component in the Westernized concept of “coming-of-age.” But our opinions on the topic doesn’t end there. We have serious connotations when it comes to generalizing young people, connotations that are a product of our social, political, cultural, ideological, and economical experiences. Consequently, this forms the foundation and ideas behind our pedagogy and curriculum in the education system. It makes sense: we will treat and educate our students based on how we view them, and we typically view them at best as “hormonally imbalanced,” “misunderstood,” and “awkward,” and at worst, “rebellious,” “lost,” and “incapable.” This, in turn, then works to define what “good” teaching is, and unfortunately, the art of teaching, at times, has become synonymous with the art of “managing” and “reining in” these lost young adults.

When thinking of how our culture views adolescents, I thought of Gwendolyn Brook’s poem, “We Real Cool.” In it, the poet describes in quite negative imagery what she believes are the thoughts and feelings of a group of seven young men who were playing pool during the middle of the school day. In an interview, Gwendolyn Brooks candidly responds to questions regarding the collective, “adolescent” voice of her poem “We Real Cool”:

They have no pretensions to any glamor. They are supposedly dropouts, or at least they're in the poolroom when they should possibly be in school, since they're probably young enough, or at least those I saw were when I looked in a poolroom. They're a little uncertain of the strength of their identity.

Mrs. Brooks, in her observation, makes several assumptions of her subjects. They must be skipping school, and thus they must be in all sorts of trouble (“sing sin,” “thin gin”). I happen to love this poem, but thinking of how we define adolescents made me see it in a new way. Essentially, the poem gives a voice to the adolescents—a voice that is pretty rebellious, complacent, and quite honestly, depressing.

What is the voice that we are giving our adolescent students by what we teach them and how we teach it? Are they speaking themselves or are we (parents, teachers, administrators, authors, etc) speaking for them?

“We Real Cool”

Gwendolyn Brooks

THE POOL PLAYERS.
SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.

We real cool. We
Skip school. We

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon.

It's the Small Things that Matter

The soft smell of cinnamon gum, the delightful droning of various NPR broadcasters, the quiet dignity of a mustache and bow tie—these characteristics are synonymous with only one man—my father.

Growing up, I knew as a child that my dad was admired and respected in our small community. Whether it was at church or school, someone always had something to say about his humor, charisma, or passion. Now, it’s my turn.

There are numerous memories that might not mean much to some, but mean the world to me. I truly believe that it’s the small things that count, and here are a few of those “small” things that I remember from my childhood.

I remember when my dad would vacuum, he would place the ottoman on top of the chair—which created a perfect hiding place for me. I would crawl in the open space and hide from the world, and create a new one for myself. I loved that…in fact, there have been several times in my adult life in which I needed to crawl into that covert…if only I could fit!

Although the father of three girls, my dad never missed out on the sports, rough-housing, or other traditions that involves rearing boys. In fact, the most predominate memory with my dad has to be “Wild Rumpus!” This game involved my younger sister and I pummeling my dad while yelling a shrilling “Let the Wild Rumpus Begin!” (taken from the book he would read to us, Where the Wild Things Are. See? Everything good comes from books J). We would then commence in a “battle royale” until we were all too tired to move. Needless to say, my sister and I loved it.

The memories could go on and on—pizza on Fridays, pancakes on Saturdays, bike rides, car rides, camping—but there is one constant that ties them all together. My father loved us. That is something I always felt growing up, and I think that if you accomplished that as a parent, you have succeeded.

Thank you, Dad, for everything. For raising me, for inspiring me, for loving me. Happy Father’s Day—you’re the best.

"Every Trip is a Quest" (especially to the grocery store)

25 years ago my mom celebrated her very first mother’s day. Not being a mother myself yet, I can only imagine the depth of pride, joy, and sense of fulfillment she experienced on that day, as well as many others over the years. I want to write this blog as a tribute to my mother because I don’t tell her enough how much I love her or how I completely respect the woman she is, and because she doesn’t know—even in the slightest sense—how much she has shaped me into the person I have become.

One of the most significant ways she touched my life was with a seemingly insignificant tradition. Probably from the time I was an infant, my mom would buy me a book (usually from The Berenstain Bears collection…remember those?) every time she would take me grocery shopping. The grocery stores used to have children’s books on revolving racks near the check-out and I remember her guiding me in my selection. My attention was on the most colorful and decorated cover pictures, but she would patiently pick up a book, skim through the content, and show me what the book was going to be about—essentially selling the content of the book and thematic elements instead of the pictures. As an adult, when I retrospectively consider my emotions of excitement and intrigue of these moments, I can honestly tribute that tradition as the cornerstone of my passion for literature. To this day, when I drive myself up to Barnes and Noble, I experience that “school-girl giddiness” when I run my hands over the new, untouched book covers and skim the pages for content (rather than pictures). My mother taught me that books are a gift, in more ways than one. My mother taught me to love reading.

Through the years, unbeknownst to my mother and maybe even myself, I have watched how she handled life and all the love, joy, beauty, and pain that comes with it. I have fulfilled the truth of the adage that foreshadows every child reaching a point where she will truly appreciate the discipline and choices of her parents. My mother taught me what it means to love—which is meant to be simple, but, oh, how we make it so complicated. My mother taught me what it means to be a woman—a strong, independent woman who can make her mark on the word while nurturing her husband and children. My mother taught me what it means to be a Christian who must live by faith and walk in truth.

Mom, I realize now that you are the “citadel” of my life. You are the person I run to first when I need help, wisdom, and guidance and I know that is never going to change. I hope that my life can be a reflection of you and all that you have given me. No words could ever express what you mean to me—but I hope that this serves as a voice and speaks the truth that you have so beautifully spoken already. Happy Mother’s Day.

The Roads I Take

It has been four years since I received my bachelor’s degree, and now I find myself once again making the trek out to Ypsilanti, Michigan—where my collegiate experiences took root. To be honest, I chose Eastern Michigan University for my graduate work because it was “safe” and “familiar” to me: I knew the campus and most of the professors in the English department. But, surprisingly, I found myself intrigued with the concept of walking back down a path I had already taken and exploring it through a different perspective.

Upon my arrival, I noticed that not much had changed. The parking lot by Bowen Field house was as packed as ever, the squirrels just as friendly, and the soup stand in Pray Harold as “charming” as it always was. What changed was myself.

Four years have both flown by, and, at the same time, it feels like it has been an eternity since I was an undergrad student. In four years I have developed a strong relationship with the best man I know, survived the infamous first three years of teaching, lost some friendships and gained some new ones, discovered the emotional experience of coaching, traveled both in and out of the country, and hopefully matured a bit in the process.

Honestly, I have really enjoyed my twenties (and I still have five more years to go!). There is something exciting about the mystery of how your life will unfold in front of your eyes. However, I have not been completely sheltered from the insecurity and anxiety a “twenty-something” experiences in love, career, finances, and other important life choices. My walk through the campus rendered this interior dialogue, which led me to recall Frost’s famous poem “The Road Not Taken.” In this piece, the speaker ponders the age-old dilemma of being stuck at a proverbial “fork” in the “road” of his life. This metaphor is completely relatable in that life is full of moments where we are faced with two or more tough choices and then are forced to choose between them. But what I find truly poignant is the speaker’s attitude toward this predicament. At first he recalls his feelings of regret that he can’t choose both paths (“And sorry I could not travel both / And be one traveler”) but as he reflects back on this pivotal time in his life, he looks back and “sighs” with a feeling of satisfaction and fulfillment. Although he didn’t know if the path he chose was right for him at the time or if it was truly the one that was “less-traveled”, he concludes that his chosen path “made all the difference” and that a “way leads on to way.”

Maybe life isn’t about knowing what will come next at each juncture. Maybe it’s about taking each day as it comes, and doing the best with what you have. I think I once viewed life as linear, in a sense. But I noticed from my own experiences that sometimes you can come “full-circle” in certain situations and take away something new each time you come back around. I am excited about where the forks in my roads are leading me, and it is my hope that “Somewhere ages and ages” from now, I too will look back and feel content with the choices I made and the roads I took.

"The Road Not Taken"

Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth.

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same.

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Lessons from Mr. Keating

I always look forward to April every year with my talented group of sophomores. This is when we dive blindly into our poetry unit. While some approach the idea of poetry with excitement and energy, most students enter the unit with baggage, misconceptions, and fear—a sense that their vulnerability is about to be tested.

I open the unit with the famous scene from “The Dead Poet’s Society” (this film instills a passion for literature—heck, a passion for LIFE—within every member of its audience) when Mr. Keating (Robin Williams) demands that the students rip and tear and cast aside the introduction of poetry from their text books in hopes to initiate a new way of thinking—one that exists outside rules, forms, and boxes. My student’s laugh at the boys’ reactions: some jump right in and find it immediately liberating to physically destroy the shackles that have become synonymous with all things scholarly. Some look around before they join, seeking the affirmation and approval of others before proceeding in the supposed intellectual debauchery. However, the scene focuses on one student’s obvious inner struggle with the concept of tearing pages from his sacred textbook and his fear of relinquishing the control and learned behavior to experience a moment of free thought and expression. He eventually is encouraged and ultimately persuaded to join his fellow classmates, but through a method and pace that is clearly evident of his resistance: He tears one page, the first page, out of the book in a meticulous, clean rip guided by his trusty ruler.

My student’s label this poor individual as “dorky” in their minds (while a few of them articulate this vocally); ironically, it is this very student that they are most alike when it comes to poetry, critical thinking, and creative expression in general. Why think for ourselves when someone else can do it for us? Why? Because it’s easier; it’s what we know; it’s SAFE.

Last Friday was the first of several “Poetry Fridays” in our unit. It requires the students to bring in an original poem and, much to their chagrin, read it aloud in class. I love the idea of them owning their work and voicing it to the world (or to our small class of about 20).

I am always amazed by the poems. It’s a tangible beauty that breaks the monotony of formulaic essays and rules, and a “four walled” way of thought. When the students rise from their seats and nervously walk to the podium a certain kind of miracle happens. They, perhaps for the first time, realize the power of words and they recognize an ability that some have chosen to keep buried within themselves. They discover that what they think and feel is valuable. They’ve announced to the world: “Here I am.”

In a world that has been transformed by text messages and facebook and twitter updates, we have lost a little of ourselves. Read or write a poem today— and tear a few “pages” while you’re at it.