We sat around the other night, some girls and I, feeling the humidity soak our skin and talking about the endless list of the effects of Hurricane Katrina. That storm moved and shook people, turned people upside down, emptied their pockets and disoriented them when once placed back on their own two feet. But that storm shook and moved people who weren't even in the vicinity of it. We started thinking about the effects Katrina had on us--the selfish list. But with New Orleans becoming one of the top spots for young urban professionals, there is validity to the idea.
I absolutely positively know God put me here. In fact, I have never been so sure of anything. That storm hit, and I watched the news, and something in my body shifted and pulled, and I was on a relief trip three weeks later. Two years later. Almost three years later. Each time I came, I swear, strong-but-wary magnets were installed into my body, their counterparts at the church that hosted us, on the streets of the French Quarter, in the people we talked to. And then I found myself coming again, almost four years after the storm, with unsteady feet and a pile of luggage and a 70115 address.
Others I meet here have similar stories: he came for a relief trip and never left, she is here to rebuild, they have ideas for a better education system so knew this was the place to come, she has relatives here whose stories were too much to simply ignore. So they came, following a trail from home to heart, comfortable to un-, inspired to on fire.
We are storm transplants. Some head back into time, solving crimes and questions that have been left with nothing short of ellipses from the storm (high five, legal friends). Others are moving forward, building and creating what seemed to be devastated and turning it into a physical display of future. Either way, I admire these people. The "transplants" most likely would not have moved to this city if it weren't for a hurricane. I wonder if I even would have visited or ever blocked out instant generalizations of booze and Bourbon. Sure, I felt my insides when I watched the water on TV five years ago, but I didn't know I should start house hunting or looking for a new favorite coffee shop to recoil in.
New Orleans is a lab city; people with ideas have moved here and people who love the city stayed. Together, passion and brilliance, cultural understanding and innovation, things are happening here that other cities do not have the necessity for.
It's selfish to think about, we decided. But it is interesting to see what the hurricane put in our lives: a profession I probably never would have considered without New Orleans and the idea of rebuilding an education system; inspiring, life-long friends with similar interests and a desire to be in the GNO; a crazy new perspective on poverty, government, community; and, most importantly, a colorful city to serve. And I pray to take all of those things seriously.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Hazards of Love:1
I have a student from last year who taught me a lot of things. He had always wanted attention, whether that meant getting it from climbing on the tables, knocking chairs over onto other students, running out of the classroom or using scissors correctly (to cut his already short hair), writing letter-like figures or finding a shape in the hallway. He taught me that positive redirection every two seconds makes me want to hit the hay by 3 p.m. but is worth it because it changes stubborn attitudes and inspires loving the feeling of pride in one's self. He taught me to work harder to make the whole class work and that the word "activity" contains the word "active" for a reason, so plan accordingly. I saw a time in his life when his joy was depleted, and I couldn't figure it out, and then I saw him begin to write his name and count 10 objects and love himself. I felt a range of emotions with him, and I therefore treasure him as my student, friend, teacher. We are close.
I looked forward to seeing how he would do in Pre-K 4 this year, excited for his progress, but as he wasn't at orientation, I called his mom. There was a freak accident, she said. He is in a body cast, she told me. He can't go to school until October. Even then, he'll be limping. Hard news to hear. I worried. He would be out of school for a long time. I had seen how often he needed positive reminders of rules and routines to do a great job and how even a weekend could force us to have to start from square one all over again.
October came, and his new teacher told me my friend was returning. Before my students arrived that day, I was searching the halls for my most active, physically-capable student with star eyes and a silly smile. All other four-year olds passed on their way to class and, there, at the end of the hall was a taller boy with a straight face and burnt-out eyes. He was having a hard time walking and was holding the hand of an assistant. He saw me, and he tried to walk over, but it was too fast, and he almost fell forward. I went to him, embracing him and telling him he looked awesome, and I am so happy he is here. He had to be reminded he had a new classroom, and he was led away, chatting the whole time.
As my student from last year limped down the hall, beaming at his small steps and telling the assistant, "I can go fast," and she said, "you walk however you'd like," I hurried back into my room, telling my nose to stop burning, my eyes to stop watering.
Back in my classroom, I was greeted by my three-year-old student, a teacher's child who comes to me early and stays late, all-out dancing with our stuffed-animal bear to the Coldplay I blast in the morning to get my synapses connecting, and I thought, locus of control.
Teach for America does an excellent job of training us to think about our sphere of influence. What is in your direct control? You get a student for so many hours in the day, and it is your responsibility to make sure s/he takes away knowledge, self-respect, problem-solving skills. It is your job to make sure his/her brain grows and s/he leaves your class completely caught up and hopefully ahead, with a courage and desire to confront and solve any challenge s/he comes across. Those things are the teacher's responsibility, and there are no excuses, no exceptions. And then you get these students who are hungry or tired or have a list of responsibilities I might not even have. They don't get a lot of homework help from or time with their parents. They are in body casts and miss school to the point where teachers become frustrated with catching them up or explaining routines. And so there are some times when teachers can't cross the line, can't take on every student's every difficulty. But teachers have emotions, attachments, hopes, love. It hurts.
I spent a lot of time with this friend last year, hoping and praying that all he had accomplished and gone through in my class was going to be ingrained for the long haul. And I am not saying it wasn't. But it is hard to now watch him struggle similar to his early days of school last year and to think about the things out of my control: summer break, the accident, not being able to come to school for such a long time. And the things in my control: my work with him last year (maybe I failed) and the new group of students sitting in my class with attention spans too short to allow a second's glance back to see if a four-year old is limping or walking, falling or flying.
Running into students from last year has gotten me through rough days this year; their smiles and greetings and new accomplishments are candles leading my way. But to think of the future challenges I can't be there to coach them through hurts. I guess that should push us to focus on our locus of control; it should encourage us to invest deep in our interactions with our current students who we get to have for most of their waking hours and work our hardest to love and teach every second. I want to be there for every one of those kids; it's just hard when you feel a tug back from a leash.
I looked forward to seeing how he would do in Pre-K 4 this year, excited for his progress, but as he wasn't at orientation, I called his mom. There was a freak accident, she said. He is in a body cast, she told me. He can't go to school until October. Even then, he'll be limping. Hard news to hear. I worried. He would be out of school for a long time. I had seen how often he needed positive reminders of rules and routines to do a great job and how even a weekend could force us to have to start from square one all over again.
October came, and his new teacher told me my friend was returning. Before my students arrived that day, I was searching the halls for my most active, physically-capable student with star eyes and a silly smile. All other four-year olds passed on their way to class and, there, at the end of the hall was a taller boy with a straight face and burnt-out eyes. He was having a hard time walking and was holding the hand of an assistant. He saw me, and he tried to walk over, but it was too fast, and he almost fell forward. I went to him, embracing him and telling him he looked awesome, and I am so happy he is here. He had to be reminded he had a new classroom, and he was led away, chatting the whole time.
As my student from last year limped down the hall, beaming at his small steps and telling the assistant, "I can go fast," and she said, "you walk however you'd like," I hurried back into my room, telling my nose to stop burning, my eyes to stop watering.
Back in my classroom, I was greeted by my three-year-old student, a teacher's child who comes to me early and stays late, all-out dancing with our stuffed-animal bear to the Coldplay I blast in the morning to get my synapses connecting, and I thought, locus of control.
Teach for America does an excellent job of training us to think about our sphere of influence. What is in your direct control? You get a student for so many hours in the day, and it is your responsibility to make sure s/he takes away knowledge, self-respect, problem-solving skills. It is your job to make sure his/her brain grows and s/he leaves your class completely caught up and hopefully ahead, with a courage and desire to confront and solve any challenge s/he comes across. Those things are the teacher's responsibility, and there are no excuses, no exceptions. And then you get these students who are hungry or tired or have a list of responsibilities I might not even have. They don't get a lot of homework help from or time with their parents. They are in body casts and miss school to the point where teachers become frustrated with catching them up or explaining routines. And so there are some times when teachers can't cross the line, can't take on every student's every difficulty. But teachers have emotions, attachments, hopes, love. It hurts.
I spent a lot of time with this friend last year, hoping and praying that all he had accomplished and gone through in my class was going to be ingrained for the long haul. And I am not saying it wasn't. But it is hard to now watch him struggle similar to his early days of school last year and to think about the things out of my control: summer break, the accident, not being able to come to school for such a long time. And the things in my control: my work with him last year (maybe I failed) and the new group of students sitting in my class with attention spans too short to allow a second's glance back to see if a four-year old is limping or walking, falling or flying.
Running into students from last year has gotten me through rough days this year; their smiles and greetings and new accomplishments are candles leading my way. But to think of the future challenges I can't be there to coach them through hurts. I guess that should push us to focus on our locus of control; it should encourage us to invest deep in our interactions with our current students who we get to have for most of their waking hours and work our hardest to love and teach every second. I want to be there for every one of those kids; it's just hard when you feel a tug back from a leash.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
psalm16.8
Today, it is pouring in New Orleans. Big, fat tears fall from the sky, filling up streets to our car wheels' rims and murmuring "below sea level" as it comes. Today, people roll their eyes and tie umbrellas to their wrists and look cute in galoshes. Small talk in the coffee shop was of "cats and dogs" and canceled festivals and, of course, the Saints. It is pouring.
Count back five years, and August 28th was apparently still: the trees, the wind, the clouds in the sky, the traffic heading anywhere but here.
Some could say that today the city is crying, a non-stop suffering in remembering, of being tired of a rebuilding process that illuminates poverty, lacking systems, inequality, injustice.
Some could say the rain is a cleansing, a reminder that we can be washed anew and the past doesn't have to linger.
Either way, it has been five years since winds and water took control of the city and created a catalyst for crime, lawlessness, homelessness--unreal things that happen when our brains switch to survival mode. Katrina is now an annual event, a reason Aug. 29 is much different than other days.
The city hasn't been the same since, everyone says. In a lot of ways, that is devastating. In a lot of ways, Katrina made a city vulnerable--open for exposure, for all to see the poverty and racism here, the failing schools, the politics, the crime. Katrina didn't create those things, but water and wind and a temporary toss of hope into the "lost and found" bin didn't help. Katrina brought cameras, investigations, rebuilding, questions--the story of the storm dug deep to weave a tangled web of the intricacies of New Orleans, and that didn't always appear so hot.
It's hard for me to talk. I wasn't here then. I'm just the one noticing how often I have been stuck behind tour buses while passing the Lower 9th Ward on my way home from school the past two weeks and the more noticeable bouquets of flowers--some fresh and some dried--that line the major road as one drives into St. Bernard Parish. But I have the privilege of working in that community with those who rode out the storm or those that escaped for the necessary, minimal time only to return to water, rubble, nothing. These people are tough and resilient and talk about the storm as if it were yesterday's lunch. I would guess they see the city as both tear-stained and in attempts to cleanse. They say they want to be over it--not in a forgetful sense, just in a moving-on one. But there are little things or a lack of little things that often bring the tears. I could write a book with the stories I hear, the ones I listen to when we are sitting down for lunch and the storm inevitably comes up, and I gape and gawk and cry and have to finish my lunch at another time as the clock says lunch is over, and I am still asking questions or just listening. Because when you return from being homeless to see and feel your homelessness secured in the form of 18-foot water marks and no neighbors or possessions or schools or groceries or libraries, it's hard for that part of life not to come up.
But because of the vulnerability, because of the loss, there has been an entire movement to not give up. Not only have people not given up, but they have plans to do it "better" than last time. Better comes in the sense of fixing politics, education reform, the public libraries, levees. By no means do all feel that having their houses rebuilt is "better" than before the storm; they are thankful, but it has probably come with loss, with some confusion of community, with some this-isn't-the-same-ness. But who knew New Orleans would now have more students in successful charter schools than any city in the country? Or Brad Pitt would fill the Lower 9th with the coolest, greenest houses I've ever seen? Or that New Orleans has hundreds of organizations and people brimming over with ideas who meet to bring together the arts, green movements, politics, urban planning and more to experiment in this lab city? Five years have passed, and a lot has happened. There is still a lot of mourning and a lot of blame and tomorrow will make some people wish memories weren't so vivid, but, when others get too down, a woman I work with who lost every single thing breaks out into song in her husky, lispy voice, "this ain't nothin'." I don't know how she does that. But that, along with local kids' smiles and music blaring from the Quarter and the pure love people have for this city, gives me hope.
There is movement here. The day before the storm was still. It's not anymore. Today it is pouring in New Orleans. But we all know rain brings the green. So I see life.
Count back five years, and August 28th was apparently still: the trees, the wind, the clouds in the sky, the traffic heading anywhere but here.
Some could say that today the city is crying, a non-stop suffering in remembering, of being tired of a rebuilding process that illuminates poverty, lacking systems, inequality, injustice.
Some could say the rain is a cleansing, a reminder that we can be washed anew and the past doesn't have to linger.
Either way, it has been five years since winds and water took control of the city and created a catalyst for crime, lawlessness, homelessness--unreal things that happen when our brains switch to survival mode. Katrina is now an annual event, a reason Aug. 29 is much different than other days.
The city hasn't been the same since, everyone says. In a lot of ways, that is devastating. In a lot of ways, Katrina made a city vulnerable--open for exposure, for all to see the poverty and racism here, the failing schools, the politics, the crime. Katrina didn't create those things, but water and wind and a temporary toss of hope into the "lost and found" bin didn't help. Katrina brought cameras, investigations, rebuilding, questions--the story of the storm dug deep to weave a tangled web of the intricacies of New Orleans, and that didn't always appear so hot.
It's hard for me to talk. I wasn't here then. I'm just the one noticing how often I have been stuck behind tour buses while passing the Lower 9th Ward on my way home from school the past two weeks and the more noticeable bouquets of flowers--some fresh and some dried--that line the major road as one drives into St. Bernard Parish. But I have the privilege of working in that community with those who rode out the storm or those that escaped for the necessary, minimal time only to return to water, rubble, nothing. These people are tough and resilient and talk about the storm as if it were yesterday's lunch. I would guess they see the city as both tear-stained and in attempts to cleanse. They say they want to be over it--not in a forgetful sense, just in a moving-on one. But there are little things or a lack of little things that often bring the tears. I could write a book with the stories I hear, the ones I listen to when we are sitting down for lunch and the storm inevitably comes up, and I gape and gawk and cry and have to finish my lunch at another time as the clock says lunch is over, and I am still asking questions or just listening. Because when you return from being homeless to see and feel your homelessness secured in the form of 18-foot water marks and no neighbors or possessions or schools or groceries or libraries, it's hard for that part of life not to come up.
But because of the vulnerability, because of the loss, there has been an entire movement to not give up. Not only have people not given up, but they have plans to do it "better" than last time. Better comes in the sense of fixing politics, education reform, the public libraries, levees. By no means do all feel that having their houses rebuilt is "better" than before the storm; they are thankful, but it has probably come with loss, with some confusion of community, with some this-isn't-the-same-ness. But who knew New Orleans would now have more students in successful charter schools than any city in the country? Or Brad Pitt would fill the Lower 9th with the coolest, greenest houses I've ever seen? Or that New Orleans has hundreds of organizations and people brimming over with ideas who meet to bring together the arts, green movements, politics, urban planning and more to experiment in this lab city? Five years have passed, and a lot has happened. There is still a lot of mourning and a lot of blame and tomorrow will make some people wish memories weren't so vivid, but, when others get too down, a woman I work with who lost every single thing breaks out into song in her husky, lispy voice, "this ain't nothin'." I don't know how she does that. But that, along with local kids' smiles and music blaring from the Quarter and the pure love people have for this city, gives me hope.
There is movement here. The day before the storm was still. It's not anymore. Today it is pouring in New Orleans. But we all know rain brings the green. So I see life.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Welcome to Year Two
This afternoon, I headed towards the door to leave a brand new classroom (NOT in a trailer), flipped the lights off and turned around to say good-bye to the clean, overly-ready room that tomorrow will change as 17 three-year olds run into the classroom, starting their first day of the institute we define our childhood by. Right now, there is a blankness to the room. Everything is clean, unused and turned to the perfect angle. Floors are not scratched, and there is no rainbow of colors on the tables. The board is blank, my desk is blank, the job chart is blank, the spaces I have created for artwork are blank. Each center--dramatic play, blocks, art, etc.--cannot yet be too overwhelming, so shelves are empty and Lysol-wiped to the n-th degree.
Sure, it looks really nice, almost sparkling due to the literal cutting-of-the-ribbon ceremony that took place at my new school a few weeks ago.
But I hate it.
Since the first week of August, I have been unpacking, cleaning, creating, building, moving, all the while envisioning little hands and little minds, and I am ready to see if my visions worked. I don't want starch white paper or brand new markers or empty trash cans or the satisfaction of how clean the House center appears. I don't want students' individual symbols just hanging from the Happy face on the behavior chart--I want reasons to move them up to Super Happy or even down to Unhappy if it means teaching about not throwing a bin of blocks across the room. I want to come home not exhausted from transporting boxes in the heat but exhausted from dancing and practicing walking in a line and running from a paint spill to someone writing an alphabet letter to turning an upside-down book right-side-up. Mess means we did art and imagined or took too long talking about the details of a story so we couldn't clean the mats up after naps. It's great.
Everything right now is blank. And I could be cheesy and talk about a blank slate for the year, blank minds, but those are the things that are not blank. I have filled-in lesson plans this year and a room ready for minds filled with big personalities and potential energy. We might have to hold a rope to walk in a line or a stuffed animal to make sure we are taking turns talking. But, really, there is nothing blank in those minds at all.
So I'll try to wake up super early tomorrow to have a roommate take a first-day-of-school picture on the steps, me and my 10 bags and gallon of coffee. I'll walk into a clean room but will hope to go big or go home before 3 p.m.: crayon marks here, drying paint there--it's going to be awesome.
Sure, it looks really nice, almost sparkling due to the literal cutting-of-the-ribbon ceremony that took place at my new school a few weeks ago.
But I hate it.
Since the first week of August, I have been unpacking, cleaning, creating, building, moving, all the while envisioning little hands and little minds, and I am ready to see if my visions worked. I don't want starch white paper or brand new markers or empty trash cans or the satisfaction of how clean the House center appears. I don't want students' individual symbols just hanging from the Happy face on the behavior chart--I want reasons to move them up to Super Happy or even down to Unhappy if it means teaching about not throwing a bin of blocks across the room. I want to come home not exhausted from transporting boxes in the heat but exhausted from dancing and practicing walking in a line and running from a paint spill to someone writing an alphabet letter to turning an upside-down book right-side-up. Mess means we did art and imagined or took too long talking about the details of a story so we couldn't clean the mats up after naps. It's great.
Everything right now is blank. And I could be cheesy and talk about a blank slate for the year, blank minds, but those are the things that are not blank. I have filled-in lesson plans this year and a room ready for minds filled with big personalities and potential energy. We might have to hold a rope to walk in a line or a stuffed animal to make sure we are taking turns talking. But, really, there is nothing blank in those minds at all.
So I'll try to wake up super early tomorrow to have a roommate take a first-day-of-school picture on the steps, me and my 10 bags and gallon of coffee. I'll walk into a clean room but will hope to go big or go home before 3 p.m.: crayon marks here, drying paint there--it's going to be awesome.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
In the south land there's a city / way down on the river...
New Orleans called the other day.
It wasn't necessarily a certain part of the city, although walks down Magazine and French Quarter music at sunset had crossed my mind. I missed snoballs and jambalaya and Parkways' po' boys, but food didn't make the call.
This call came in the form of a "but I am four-years old now, Miss Wooldridge" kid. I was reading on my bed in Kirkwood when my phone rang, I smiled at my caller ID and answered to a student from last year who literally never did one thing wrong. He is, in my eyes, perfect, and I would pay money to have him again this upcoming fall.
We chatted about normal things--Chuck E Cheese got a new game, but you can only play it if you are the birthday kid. Summer was OK but he "wants to go back to school." Writing his name is "easy" but "you might thing my brain got bigger." We should probably go to the park together as long as Mom or Dad could go, and he double-checked with his dad to tell me his brother was at work. He might get to watch a Transformers movie later.
"I miss you!" I said, beaming that we had gotten to talk. "I will have the baby three-year olds in my class next year. You will have to show them how to walk in line!" This was hilarious, and he "can't believe that."
"Well," he said, sounding quite mature after I had emphasized, "I miss you!"
"You know where I can be?" he asked, accent and all.
"Where?"
"In your heart. Forever."
I don't remember how I responded.
I hadn't thought I was ready to leave St. Louis and summer until that phone call. I cried. My mom cried. I was being pulled. It was time.
So I hopped into the car with someone who makes me smile and headed south, leaving behind a trail of sleeping in, sister hang-outs, Cardinal games, road trips north, catching fireflies with a new kitten, one too many Tropical Moose snocones and all that summers have come to be. Ten hours, one sweet tea and some thermometer-exploding heat later, we came across a skyline with a dome and a city with a mending heart.
That skyline made me pray: praise and help, idealism and reality, love and fear.
I moved into a new house -- one of those I can only describe as simply being "New Orleans-ish," and that is a dream fulfilled. There were beignet and brass band and glasses-fogging-humidity welcomes. I went to appropriately-timed garage sales (that start at 9 and 10 a.m. as opposed to STL's 6 a.m.-and-you've-missed-the-deals kinds of things) and embraced friends I could celebrate one-year anniversaries with, although it feels like longer. There is an excitement in the air--a pretty cool feeling of semi-knowing the city and having friends and, to put simply, it NOT being last year. But it's also a place that still screams adventure and watch-your-step. That's a pretty good combo to have. If summer has to end, I'll just be thankful for a start in this city and for voices on the other end of the wire to give updates on Chuck E Cheese and where your heart is.
It wasn't necessarily a certain part of the city, although walks down Magazine and French Quarter music at sunset had crossed my mind. I missed snoballs and jambalaya and Parkways' po' boys, but food didn't make the call.
This call came in the form of a "but I am four-years old now, Miss Wooldridge" kid. I was reading on my bed in Kirkwood when my phone rang, I smiled at my caller ID and answered to a student from last year who literally never did one thing wrong. He is, in my eyes, perfect, and I would pay money to have him again this upcoming fall.
We chatted about normal things--Chuck E Cheese got a new game, but you can only play it if you are the birthday kid. Summer was OK but he "wants to go back to school." Writing his name is "easy" but "you might thing my brain got bigger." We should probably go to the park together as long as Mom or Dad could go, and he double-checked with his dad to tell me his brother was at work. He might get to watch a Transformers movie later.
"I miss you!" I said, beaming that we had gotten to talk. "I will have the baby three-year olds in my class next year. You will have to show them how to walk in line!" This was hilarious, and he "can't believe that."
"Well," he said, sounding quite mature after I had emphasized, "I miss you!"
"You know where I can be?" he asked, accent and all.
"Where?"
"In your heart. Forever."
I don't remember how I responded.
I hadn't thought I was ready to leave St. Louis and summer until that phone call. I cried. My mom cried. I was being pulled. It was time.
So I hopped into the car with someone who makes me smile and headed south, leaving behind a trail of sleeping in, sister hang-outs, Cardinal games, road trips north, catching fireflies with a new kitten, one too many Tropical Moose snocones and all that summers have come to be. Ten hours, one sweet tea and some thermometer-exploding heat later, we came across a skyline with a dome and a city with a mending heart.
That skyline made me pray: praise and help, idealism and reality, love and fear.
I moved into a new house -- one of those I can only describe as simply being "New Orleans-ish," and that is a dream fulfilled. There were beignet and brass band and glasses-fogging-humidity welcomes. I went to appropriately-timed garage sales (that start at 9 and 10 a.m. as opposed to STL's 6 a.m.-and-you've-missed-the-deals kinds of things) and embraced friends I could celebrate one-year anniversaries with, although it feels like longer. There is an excitement in the air--a pretty cool feeling of semi-knowing the city and having friends and, to put simply, it NOT being last year. But it's also a place that still screams adventure and watch-your-step. That's a pretty good combo to have. If summer has to end, I'll just be thankful for a start in this city and for voices on the other end of the wire to give updates on Chuck E Cheese and where your heart is.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
"Can I Be the Hulk NOW?"
We could all presume that when I started this, it would be slightly inconsistent. In my head, summer time would mean catch-up time. As June draws to a close, we can see how well that is going. Feeble (and way too long, essay-like) attempts continued:
There are a lot of talents that I wanted my 16 miniature students to leave our classroom with having had improved upon. Our list of Big Goals hung by my desk as a daily reminder to give it the extra push. One thing I did not include on this list that will be included next year is to practice using our imaginations.
The first few months of school, I guess I expected children who were similar to the old videos I watch of me, my brother and our friends/cousins. Any item could be a princess (shampoo bottles). Lying to strangers about your identity is acceptable. One can switch roles in a heart beat from the bad guy to a mommy to the baby to a puppy, all before lunch. I went around and put random objects in centers, patting myself on the back for encouraging abstract, existential art and imagination. I saw them in my mind, picking up a strategically-placed cup and using it as a hat and telephone and liquid container. A long block could be a telephone and a hammer and a crib. Surely my students were trying to convey something about their emotions through the scribbles that thinned my crayons down to potential candle wax. I would witness the blooming of miniature anti-art artists, those who David Sedaris writes about in Me Talk Pretty One Day--particularly a man who decided to not have furniture, just a "nest" made of human hair and who suggested the art museum have an exhibit where they, simply, set the stairs on fire.
So I got carried away by ideas of students having magnificent ideas. ["What's the most resilient parasite? An idea. A single idea from the human mind can build cities."] Needless to say, the first few days and weeks of school went by. My styro-foam cups were untouched or just left with teeth marks. Blankets remained stacked. Blocks built towers that crumbled after 5-6 on top. Many children went and simply held toys or ran at them, enjoying the crash an entire four shelves of buckets of Discovery Center items makes. They seemed unsure of how to handle the wide variety of things meant for them. My ideas for them seemed to be wasted. I thought, but they are the kids. Surely they are the ones with less of a filter around the logical headquarters in our brains.
My assistant pointed something out: think of the home visits we conducted; these children didn't have cabinets or rooms full of play items; this is probably overwhelming and a chance to indulge without knowing the rules. She was right. Back to square one.
I started hiking up my skirts to kneel down to "think" out loud in the Blocks center: I think I am going to use these blocks to make a bridge. Oh, there is a map with words in here? I am going to use this and maybe build a grocery store for my car to stop by. I would get up from crafty art projects I wanted to administer to stop by the Dramatic Play center: I am going to spread out this blanket for a picnic blanket and use this block as a phone to call my friends and ask them what they would like to eat so I can order it for us to eat. I'll write it down on this paper. A pretend conversation would ensue between me and no one, and, soon enough, one student was taking orders on his paper cell phone. After multiple days exploring our materials, I saw kids delivering mail, pretending they were on a computer and assigning roles in a set-up house situation. I tried to give them as many ideas as possible. Often, before we would go to centers, I would use our weekly theme to encourage imaginations. I wrapped myself in blankets to be in a cocoon. I would plan what I wanted to build/prepare but purposely not plan materials so that my kids could witness me scanning the room and grabbing random objects to use.We took turns wearing Josh's old swim trunks to be at the beach. We used blocks to build a zoo. We built a fire hydrant and pretended to put a fire out. We talked about how it was OK to be your favorite princess or superhero. Soon playground confusion turned into "she is Snow White, and the witch has that apple, and so I know I have to go save her." Thumbs up.
Soon, it became scary what I was encouraging, simply for feeling thankful my students were starting to see beyond ordinary objects, and limits had to be set. I had one student, a little younger than the rest, who would come in everyday, eyebrows so sharply pointed they could cut, throw his backpack on the floor, make muscles and growl. He would pant and heave as he pounded towards other students, refusing to put his backpack away or sit criss-cross applesauce on the carpet. He was just being the Incredible Hulk, but this often created a grouch out of this boy who would rather make a toy tiger attack the turtle or race cars on other children than sit nicely. So instead of simply saying, "wow, [name] feels angry this morning, but let's sing our good-morning song," this student and I have set appropriate times to be the Hulk. Centers and the playground are always OK--run around and use all those muscles.
Lunch, obviously, can be questionable--in line has proven to not work, and his way of "eating" like the Hulk isn't helpful. It is, however, the only way I found that worked to get my very dependent little boy to attempt to open his milk. I would squeeze the carton to 98% open, he would look up at me and say, "can I be the Hulk now?" One scrunched-up face, use of tiny muscles and a white puddle later, he would smile and say, "I did it!" I try to smile and nod. The Hulk can do anything. And that, boys and girls, is the idea behind it all.
There are a lot of talents that I wanted my 16 miniature students to leave our classroom with having had improved upon. Our list of Big Goals hung by my desk as a daily reminder to give it the extra push. One thing I did not include on this list that will be included next year is to practice using our imaginations.
The first few months of school, I guess I expected children who were similar to the old videos I watch of me, my brother and our friends/cousins. Any item could be a princess (shampoo bottles). Lying to strangers about your identity is acceptable. One can switch roles in a heart beat from the bad guy to a mommy to the baby to a puppy, all before lunch. I went around and put random objects in centers, patting myself on the back for encouraging abstract, existential art and imagination. I saw them in my mind, picking up a strategically-placed cup and using it as a hat and telephone and liquid container. A long block could be a telephone and a hammer and a crib. Surely my students were trying to convey something about their emotions through the scribbles that thinned my crayons down to potential candle wax. I would witness the blooming of miniature anti-art artists, those who David Sedaris writes about in Me Talk Pretty One Day--particularly a man who decided to not have furniture, just a "nest" made of human hair and who suggested the art museum have an exhibit where they, simply, set the stairs on fire.
So I got carried away by ideas of students having magnificent ideas. ["What's the most resilient parasite? An idea. A single idea from the human mind can build cities."] Needless to say, the first few days and weeks of school went by. My styro-foam cups were untouched or just left with teeth marks. Blankets remained stacked. Blocks built towers that crumbled after 5-6 on top. Many children went and simply held toys or ran at them, enjoying the crash an entire four shelves of buckets of Discovery Center items makes. They seemed unsure of how to handle the wide variety of things meant for them. My ideas for them seemed to be wasted. I thought, but they are the kids. Surely they are the ones with less of a filter around the logical headquarters in our brains.
My assistant pointed something out: think of the home visits we conducted; these children didn't have cabinets or rooms full of play items; this is probably overwhelming and a chance to indulge without knowing the rules. She was right. Back to square one.
I started hiking up my skirts to kneel down to "think" out loud in the Blocks center: I think I am going to use these blocks to make a bridge. Oh, there is a map with words in here? I am going to use this and maybe build a grocery store for my car to stop by. I would get up from crafty art projects I wanted to administer to stop by the Dramatic Play center: I am going to spread out this blanket for a picnic blanket and use this block as a phone to call my friends and ask them what they would like to eat so I can order it for us to eat. I'll write it down on this paper. A pretend conversation would ensue between me and no one, and, soon enough, one student was taking orders on his paper cell phone. After multiple days exploring our materials, I saw kids delivering mail, pretending they were on a computer and assigning roles in a set-up house situation. I tried to give them as many ideas as possible. Often, before we would go to centers, I would use our weekly theme to encourage imaginations. I wrapped myself in blankets to be in a cocoon. I would plan what I wanted to build/prepare but purposely not plan materials so that my kids could witness me scanning the room and grabbing random objects to use.We took turns wearing Josh's old swim trunks to be at the beach. We used blocks to build a zoo. We built a fire hydrant and pretended to put a fire out. We talked about how it was OK to be your favorite princess or superhero. Soon playground confusion turned into "she is Snow White, and the witch has that apple, and so I know I have to go save her." Thumbs up.
Soon, it became scary what I was encouraging, simply for feeling thankful my students were starting to see beyond ordinary objects, and limits had to be set. I had one student, a little younger than the rest, who would come in everyday, eyebrows so sharply pointed they could cut, throw his backpack on the floor, make muscles and growl. He would pant and heave as he pounded towards other students, refusing to put his backpack away or sit criss-cross applesauce on the carpet. He was just being the Incredible Hulk, but this often created a grouch out of this boy who would rather make a toy tiger attack the turtle or race cars on other children than sit nicely. So instead of simply saying, "wow, [name] feels angry this morning, but let's sing our good-morning song," this student and I have set appropriate times to be the Hulk. Centers and the playground are always OK--run around and use all those muscles.
Lunch, obviously, can be questionable--in line has proven to not work, and his way of "eating" like the Hulk isn't helpful. It is, however, the only way I found that worked to get my very dependent little boy to attempt to open his milk. I would squeeze the carton to 98% open, he would look up at me and say, "can I be the Hulk now?" One scrunched-up face, use of tiny muscles and a white puddle later, he would smile and say, "I did it!" I try to smile and nod. The Hulk can do anything. And that, boys and girls, is the idea behind it all.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Fear of Swimming. Or is it Sinking?
After sending my mom the link for this blog, she immediately replied, supportive as ever. I had mentioned wishing I could more clearly remember being three, and this wasn't hard for her--a memory that has physical proof that time has gone by and probably of bratty little girl:
"When you were three, you were living in a fantasy land of Dorothy [from the Wizard of Oz]. You had Julie as your friend, and you loved to wear pink. You were telling [little brother] Dane how it was, as well as telling me a few things. You loved books and little figurines and your blond hair. Your life was pretty great, probably more so than some/most of your students, but you loved learning, and we cheered each little accomplishment. Is this helping at all?"
Mom, as usual, you are so helpful. As the scenery has changed in my life, whether it be going to college, abroad or a new job, I seem to have moments where I am dunked into a bucket of cold water where I come out seeing clear: I have been blessed. I have grown up with love, hope and faith instilled in every action, every decision, any dream. If I jump into pool, chances are I'll want to learn to swim, even if I feel complete fear; the option of sinking never outshone the success in simply trying. I thank my parents, community, teachers and friends.
Now I have a class of students who, for one reason or another, might not be cheered for every little accomplishment. Life is rough; when one is hungry or jobless or homeless or in jail or working two jobs, singing the ABCs or practicing shapes or counting or singing or pretending might seem annoying or might slip between the cracks of tough cards that are dealt. I point no fingers except to poverty and traditions of a system and, most apparent, a hurricane. The children here are parts of families that had to move a few times, stay in trailers, move here for the cheap rent or construction/re-opening fast-food jobs or that, in the midst of the storm, just got started too early or with a sudden loss of resources. There isn't always time or money or undoubted faith or worth-it optimism to encourage, teach or practice what many other parents would consider vital to a toddler's upbringing.
I therefore see fear in faces that are too young to show that type of fear--the type that considers failure or disappointment. Older students I tutor throw standardized tests on the floor because they "can't." I have one pre-school student who already makes up excuses if he is called to the board. "Oh, there is something in my eye," he'll say as he avoids eye contact and any other response. My goal became, no matter if we got up to 20 when counting or recognizing the letters of the week, to talk about which things I was proud of for every student. To find multiple ways of encouraging every student and making each child feel learning is always possible, safe and loved. That is the most important. Even if that means saying, "I love the way you tried to clean up your friend's milk, but next time let's use a napkin instead of your own, long hair. But aren't you a great friend?" And, when the teacher does it enough, the students started to believe in their friends, and that is the best. We all cried, "yoooouuuuu did it!" for students completing a pattern or ordering smallest to largest. Encouragement instills in us something I maybe I have taken for granted.
I just finished Randy Pausch's The Last Lecture. (Read it.) He was a man fighting pancreatic cancer, knowing he was about to leave a wife and three children. As he collected advice from friends who grew up with parents who died, he was told the most important thing he could do was to somehow make sure his kids know every day, through thick and thin, they are loved.
I wish unfaltering belief in someone was a physical thing, something we could give someone to keep in his/her pocket so that, years down the road, when there is doubt and fear and failure looming, we could unfold the belief someone has in us, and it would fight like Alice's Vorpal sword.
Ever since the storm, there has been an enforcement within my community of knowing how to swim. It is part of the students' day to be bussed to another school with a pool for lessons. But the children at my school are scared of the water. Like, really scared of it. They know how it envelopes houses, cars, pets, toys, family members. And there sometimes isn't enough encouragement that says, "you can do it." Doubt and past experiences weigh heavily. It is not that they are scared of swimming, though. They are just more familiar with the fear of sinking. And they deserve for that perspective to change.
"When you were three, you were living in a fantasy land of Dorothy [from the Wizard of Oz]. You had Julie as your friend, and you loved to wear pink. You were telling [little brother] Dane how it was, as well as telling me a few things. You loved books and little figurines and your blond hair. Your life was pretty great, probably more so than some/most of your students, but you loved learning, and we cheered each little accomplishment. Is this helping at all?"
Mom, as usual, you are so helpful. As the scenery has changed in my life, whether it be going to college, abroad or a new job, I seem to have moments where I am dunked into a bucket of cold water where I come out seeing clear: I have been blessed. I have grown up with love, hope and faith instilled in every action, every decision, any dream. If I jump into pool, chances are I'll want to learn to swim, even if I feel complete fear; the option of sinking never outshone the success in simply trying. I thank my parents, community, teachers and friends.
Now I have a class of students who, for one reason or another, might not be cheered for every little accomplishment. Life is rough; when one is hungry or jobless or homeless or in jail or working two jobs, singing the ABCs or practicing shapes or counting or singing or pretending might seem annoying or might slip between the cracks of tough cards that are dealt. I point no fingers except to poverty and traditions of a system and, most apparent, a hurricane. The children here are parts of families that had to move a few times, stay in trailers, move here for the cheap rent or construction/re-opening fast-food jobs or that, in the midst of the storm, just got started too early or with a sudden loss of resources. There isn't always time or money or undoubted faith or worth-it optimism to encourage, teach or practice what many other parents would consider vital to a toddler's upbringing.
I therefore see fear in faces that are too young to show that type of fear--the type that considers failure or disappointment. Older students I tutor throw standardized tests on the floor because they "can't." I have one pre-school student who already makes up excuses if he is called to the board. "Oh, there is something in my eye," he'll say as he avoids eye contact and any other response. My goal became, no matter if we got up to 20 when counting or recognizing the letters of the week, to talk about which things I was proud of for every student. To find multiple ways of encouraging every student and making each child feel learning is always possible, safe and loved. That is the most important. Even if that means saying, "I love the way you tried to clean up your friend's milk, but next time let's use a napkin instead of your own, long hair. But aren't you a great friend?" And, when the teacher does it enough, the students started to believe in their friends, and that is the best. We all cried, "yoooouuuuu did it!" for students completing a pattern or ordering smallest to largest. Encouragement instills in us something I maybe I have taken for granted.
I just finished Randy Pausch's The Last Lecture. (Read it.) He was a man fighting pancreatic cancer, knowing he was about to leave a wife and three children. As he collected advice from friends who grew up with parents who died, he was told the most important thing he could do was to somehow make sure his kids know every day, through thick and thin, they are loved.
I wish unfaltering belief in someone was a physical thing, something we could give someone to keep in his/her pocket so that, years down the road, when there is doubt and fear and failure looming, we could unfold the belief someone has in us, and it would fight like Alice's Vorpal sword.
Ever since the storm, there has been an enforcement within my community of knowing how to swim. It is part of the students' day to be bussed to another school with a pool for lessons. But the children at my school are scared of the water. Like, really scared of it. They know how it envelopes houses, cars, pets, toys, family members. And there sometimes isn't enough encouragement that says, "you can do it." Doubt and past experiences weigh heavily. It is not that they are scared of swimming, though. They are just more familiar with the fear of sinking. And they deserve for that perspective to change.
Friday, April 23, 2010
12-12:30 p.m.
Sometimes, a certain other wonderful Pre-K teacher and I stare at each other with blank faces and ask ourselves how we went from institutes of high-order thinking and the curious, fast-paced, omniscient study of journalism to days of graphing "Which apple tasted better: red or green?" or reminding some friends that the crayon s/he is using is orange and not purple. Our days in Pre-K go by too quickly and are broken into 15-20 minute segments because the 3s' attention spans are the same height as they are. And everything comes down to experience--the most literal form of "make every moment a teaching moment." I'll aim to shine a light on segments of our schedule until you come and visit our classroom in a trailer. Wink.
Today, breakfast and lunch. We are always late, and the students know to ask as they hurry into line) "we late again?!" A rat race to make sure each student has food, a straw, an unspilled milk, a spoon and stays in their seat, I usually sit down half-way through in front of a plate of cafeteria food I am required to have in front of me so I can model how to "eat healthy." (I fail at that task and, if I ever feel bad about it, will shove one bite of mish-mash into my mouth and comment, "mmm, mashed peas - let's all see how much we can eat. Oh, you guys are beating me!") We high-five for opening own milks and are often the loudest because we love breaking into the two competing favorites, ABCs or Beyonce's "Single Ladies." We have recorded that milk cartons are squares on the bottom, we often get 11 grapes on our plates and the triangle points out where you open your milk. Spinach leaves resemble sting rays (I hadn't noticed) and yummy rhymes with tummy and lunch with munch. If you eat your toast in the shape of a letter, there is bound to be applause. Burps and milk bubbles require an "excuse me" and Miss Wooldridge is NOT impressed when you shove the entire straw wrapper into the cavity of your ear, turn to her and over-audibly say, "Teacha, looka."
The conversation I get to sit down to is some of the best possible; it ranges from Disney princesses to, for the 3rd time that day, discussing who is absent to the science of letters or numbers to random facts such as this one today: "My brother sat on a chair, and you had to throw a ball to make him fall in the water. It was the donkey cage, and my brother was the donkey. Ha, that donkey always gets wet." It took me a few seconds to realize he was thinking of the Dunking Booth, just like it took me a few minutes to realize, at a lunch in the beginning of the year, this same boy was singing, "My mama my mama broke-her-face" and it was Lady Gaga's "Poker Face" with an innocent twist.
Lunch ends with my sweet assistant and I sweeping away plates and milk to angry, full mouths and asking them to line up, to which someone usually slips/falls over, and there is a domino effect of my students as two other classes are trying to get by. Balance is tricky.
If it is ever frustrating to battle the cafeteria that serves around 2,000 Pre-K - 5th graders, I remind myself of the time I get with my students for simple conversations and a younger version of catch-up. Not all teachers get this relaxed time of purely student perspectives. I have quite wonderful breakfast and lunch dates every day.
Today, breakfast and lunch. We are always late, and the students know to ask as they hurry into line) "we late again?!" A rat race to make sure each student has food, a straw, an unspilled milk, a spoon and stays in their seat, I usually sit down half-way through in front of a plate of cafeteria food I am required to have in front of me so I can model how to "eat healthy." (I fail at that task and, if I ever feel bad about it, will shove one bite of mish-mash into my mouth and comment, "mmm, mashed peas - let's all see how much we can eat. Oh, you guys are beating me!") We high-five for opening own milks and are often the loudest because we love breaking into the two competing favorites, ABCs or Beyonce's "Single Ladies." We have recorded that milk cartons are squares on the bottom, we often get 11 grapes on our plates and the triangle points out where you open your milk. Spinach leaves resemble sting rays (I hadn't noticed) and yummy rhymes with tummy and lunch with munch. If you eat your toast in the shape of a letter, there is bound to be applause. Burps and milk bubbles require an "excuse me" and Miss Wooldridge is NOT impressed when you shove the entire straw wrapper into the cavity of your ear, turn to her and over-audibly say, "Teacha, looka."
The conversation I get to sit down to is some of the best possible; it ranges from Disney princesses to, for the 3rd time that day, discussing who is absent to the science of letters or numbers to random facts such as this one today: "My brother sat on a chair, and you had to throw a ball to make him fall in the water. It was the donkey cage, and my brother was the donkey. Ha, that donkey always gets wet." It took me a few seconds to realize he was thinking of the Dunking Booth, just like it took me a few minutes to realize, at a lunch in the beginning of the year, this same boy was singing, "My mama my mama broke-her-face" and it was Lady Gaga's "Poker Face" with an innocent twist.
Lunch ends with my sweet assistant and I sweeping away plates and milk to angry, full mouths and asking them to line up, to which someone usually slips/falls over, and there is a domino effect of my students as two other classes are trying to get by. Balance is tricky.
If it is ever frustrating to battle the cafeteria that serves around 2,000 Pre-K - 5th graders, I remind myself of the time I get with my students for simple conversations and a younger version of catch-up. Not all teachers get this relaxed time of purely student perspectives. I have quite wonderful breakfast and lunch dates every day.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
tres/three/trois/drei
I wish I had more memories from when I was three. I could perhaps give my students better perspective--translate what I know now into something I would have understood/enjoyed when I was in my students' miniature feet. But perhaps that wouldn't be as fun.
What this group of 3s has blown my mind with is the reminder of where we come from and how we start out and how we truly have to experience in order to learn. Three, in my classroom, is an age where letters, numbers and words still blend into one's surroundings as the trees do in a forest. Counting is just listing off words without a one-to-one correspondence with objects. Time and the things we have to make sure we spend ours wisely--a clock, calendar, work hours--do not exist.
Three is an age where there are literal tears over the realization that the first letter in your name might be in another friend's name; you have to share letters of the alphabet.
Every-day items hold great mysteries worth applauding: the star in an apple, a glue stick floats instead of sinks, putting water in the closet stays the same as opposed to putting water in a freezer. The predictions with these "experiments" are endless because, when you are three, there are no limits to what might happen. You might have a dinosaur as a pet. Planting a red bean might grow into Snow White. A princess or even "mommy" might be the great surprise if we cut into a pumpkin, but seeds were just as exciting.
These wonders fill their tiny brains, and those brains take in knowledge like a pool takes in heated swimmers the first day it opens in the already-humid city of New Orleans. It is fast, and it is awesome. Now letters and words stick out like Easter eggs, and we have charts to award stickers for those who find letters, patterns, shapes, rhymes because the hunt is that exciting. We yell "you did it!" to those who count anything or know which month/season/day of the week it is. We have to stop to wave to our shadows everyday or comment on how the clouds make them disappear. They learn like they are getting paid, and even that wouldn't matter because money talk twists up their round faces in confusion.
It is a whole other topic--which qualities I wish we retained from when we are that young to being a bit older--but the ability and, even more, the passion to learn are just fireworks to me. There is so much to see and discover, and I consider myself blessed to cut the apple, point out a letter, plant a seed.
What this group of 3s has blown my mind with is the reminder of where we come from and how we start out and how we truly have to experience in order to learn. Three, in my classroom, is an age where letters, numbers and words still blend into one's surroundings as the trees do in a forest. Counting is just listing off words without a one-to-one correspondence with objects. Time and the things we have to make sure we spend ours wisely--a clock, calendar, work hours--do not exist.
Three is an age where there are literal tears over the realization that the first letter in your name might be in another friend's name; you have to share letters of the alphabet.
Every-day items hold great mysteries worth applauding: the star in an apple, a glue stick floats instead of sinks, putting water in the closet stays the same as opposed to putting water in a freezer. The predictions with these "experiments" are endless because, when you are three, there are no limits to what might happen. You might have a dinosaur as a pet. Planting a red bean might grow into Snow White. A princess or even "mommy" might be the great surprise if we cut into a pumpkin, but seeds were just as exciting.
These wonders fill their tiny brains, and those brains take in knowledge like a pool takes in heated swimmers the first day it opens in the already-humid city of New Orleans. It is fast, and it is awesome. Now letters and words stick out like Easter eggs, and we have charts to award stickers for those who find letters, patterns, shapes, rhymes because the hunt is that exciting. We yell "you did it!" to those who count anything or know which month/season/day of the week it is. We have to stop to wave to our shadows everyday or comment on how the clouds make them disappear. They learn like they are getting paid, and even that wouldn't matter because money talk twists up their round faces in confusion.
It is a whole other topic--which qualities I wish we retained from when we are that young to being a bit older--but the ability and, even more, the passion to learn are just fireworks to me. There is so much to see and discover, and I consider myself blessed to cut the apple, point out a letter, plant a seed.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
My name is in the picture and other reasons why this is selfish...
This blog is selfish.
[There is a huge sigh of relief to transfer sentences and words I adore and think about at all hours to a form of print. It is like Joseph Gordon Levitt's "and I'm back in the game" in 10 Things I Hate About You but less cool.]
For this first time since question mark, I have not been asked/assigned to write something for a period of 10 months now. That is torture. Unreal. Devastating. And I am not really doing an awesome job of completing things outside of basic survival modes or, put simply, my job as a Pre-K teacher with Teach for America in the Greater New Orleans region. So writing has been tossed aside with a German major and a New York Times and a new cook book. I miss writing and editing and the thought process and journalism classes. It's a passion I take for granted: "oh, I can write while doing other things. I can always write." And while I have picked up this passion for inspiring kids to make their brains and dreams grow big, I miss red pens and grammatically-correct conversations and recording thoughts and stories for the sake of spreading joy or need or for the mere idea that other people have those thoughts, too. So I'll selfishly write here and make myself miss writing less (?) and hopefully keep updates for those I miss so much. After all, the stories one can collect not only just from the first year of living in New Orleans but also from my classroom of 16 pre-kindergarteners can be stories with great potential.
To be put frankly, I have 10 months of 3-year-old stories floating in my brain and want to write a book to remind people where we come from and how we start out when every person around you is labeled as "friend" and counting to ten is exciting enough to silent cheer and ask to do it again. (I think we could learn a lot from our 3-year old selves. Or at least appreciate how far we have come.)
Here is where some of those stories will be, and I guess I'll feel content to regard time to write as a luxury--it will make me appreciate it more. Here's to this selfish blog. But call me to talk about grammar. Yes, do that.
[There is a huge sigh of relief to transfer sentences and words I adore and think about at all hours to a form of print. It is like Joseph Gordon Levitt's "and I'm back in the game" in 10 Things I Hate About You but less cool.]
For this first time since question mark, I have not been asked/assigned to write something for a period of 10 months now. That is torture. Unreal. Devastating. And I am not really doing an awesome job of completing things outside of basic survival modes or, put simply, my job as a Pre-K teacher with Teach for America in the Greater New Orleans region. So writing has been tossed aside with a German major and a New York Times and a new cook book. I miss writing and editing and the thought process and journalism classes. It's a passion I take for granted: "oh, I can write while doing other things. I can always write." And while I have picked up this passion for inspiring kids to make their brains and dreams grow big, I miss red pens and grammatically-correct conversations and recording thoughts and stories for the sake of spreading joy or need or for the mere idea that other people have those thoughts, too. So I'll selfishly write here and make myself miss writing less (?) and hopefully keep updates for those I miss so much. After all, the stories one can collect not only just from the first year of living in New Orleans but also from my classroom of 16 pre-kindergarteners can be stories with great potential.
To be put frankly, I have 10 months of 3-year-old stories floating in my brain and want to write a book to remind people where we come from and how we start out when every person around you is labeled as "friend" and counting to ten is exciting enough to silent cheer and ask to do it again. (I think we could learn a lot from our 3-year old selves. Or at least appreciate how far we have come.)
Here is where some of those stories will be, and I guess I'll feel content to regard time to write as a luxury--it will make me appreciate it more. Here's to this selfish blog. But call me to talk about grammar. Yes, do that.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
