Spring break. My daughter is away on a school trip, and I am away too, visiting an old friend who moved away to Portland, Oregon. I have never been to Oregon before. It's beautiful. It's wonderful to be away.
Being away always makes me think. Things happen, things are noticed. My luggage is lost and I notice that it's not my books or my favorite sweaters that I am REALLY worried about--what I really regret not putting in my carry-on bag is . . . my cell phone charger. Seriously. My cell phone has become this amazing little nexus of communication and information, and the threat of having it die on me is making me notice how much I rely on it, but also how much fun I have with it.
[Please repeat after me: Text messaging is NOT going to result in the death of the English language. Texting is FUN, it's writing play, and this is a GOOD thing.]
Loving my cell phone does not seem like a bad thing. I just need to make a few adjustments to take into account how much I depend on it.
Another thing I have noticed is that I am in a more-than-ever different life stage from my friend. She is younger than I am, has no children, and is still young enough that she could. She is in a serious relationship with a smart young boyfriend who seems like he might actually be worthy of her (she's really special, ok, and she deserves someone who realizes this). But they don't have forever to figure this out. If they want to get married, get pregnant, and raise kids before they are too old to survive the sleep deprivation, they have to get on it pretty quick. I think they realize this. I wish them luck. Timing is important, but there is never a good time for either a wedding or a childbirth. Sometimes you just have to take your fear in hand and let the universe take over.
Seeing my friend in this situation reminds me again, more clearly than even, that I have nothing but time. I have only a few years left of full-time parenting, my life is comfortable but not at all boring, and I am in no rush to make any dramatic changes. I feel lucky to have this luxury of no rush. Maybe this is the gift of being middle-aged. My daughter still needs me but needs me much less, and much differently. I do what I want, be who I want, a lot of the time. It's been years since I had such freedom. When I see women with younger children, I can still feel their compression in my own body as well as the open relief of the freedom I am growing into now.
As I imagine my friend having children and going through this compression herself, I shake my head--why does any woman put herself through this voluntarily--and yet we do. Perhaps some old part of our souls is creating the future moment of freedom that we couldn't feel if we didn't experience the sheer imprisonment of being a mother. (As I write this, I realize how melodramatic it sounds, but it seems true, at the moment anyway.)
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Saturday, March 22, 2008
precocious
My daughter got an assignment from her 8th grade Language Arts teacher to write a new final chapter for Steinbeck's The Pearl. She wrote this chapter in only a couple of hours and showed it to me. I was pretty much stunned--it was elegantly written, true to the character and voice of the novel, thematically unified. How can a 14-year-old pull this off, I ask myself. She always writes so smoothly, effortlessly beautifully. She weaves dialogue, description, commentary. She makes the rarest of obscure errors in syntax, punctuation, diction.
She won a prize from her teacher for this writing, not surprisingly, and she read it to an audience of students and parents at an 8th grade symposium the following week. Sitting on the edge of her bed in the shadows later that night, I asked her if she felt a little as though the writing had written itelf, almost as though she herself as a conscious creator had little to do with it. I think she was relieved that I described it that way--I think she feels almost guilty that she could create a text like that without even trying very hard. She must compare herself with her peers at school. She has seen lots of my students' papers. She must know that what she can do is so different that there is almost no comparing. If she didn't know it before she channeled this chapter for Steinbeck, she knows it now.
I didn't help her write her chapter, and I almost never do anything directly related to her writing at all. I stay out of her way, let her find her own moments. If she gives me something to read, I give her a little praise and and a little criticism, but I feel that it would be a mistake for me to impose any kind of agenda on her artistic expressions or even to use my suggestions / approval / disapproval to try to shape her efforts more subtly. I have seen parents do damage this way. But I also wonder if I am missing opportunities that I could offer her.
I was relieved recently when she asked me if she could do a pottery camp this summer, because I have been feeling guilty for not working harder to get her into art classes and that sort of thing. Here, at least, was something SHE asked for to develop her art. But I don't know what to do about the writing. For now I am doing nothing. I think it is too easy to hastily do the wrong thing, and the matter seems delicate for some reason.
She won a prize from her teacher for this writing, not surprisingly, and she read it to an audience of students and parents at an 8th grade symposium the following week. Sitting on the edge of her bed in the shadows later that night, I asked her if she felt a little as though the writing had written itelf, almost as though she herself as a conscious creator had little to do with it. I think she was relieved that I described it that way--I think she feels almost guilty that she could create a text like that without even trying very hard. She must compare herself with her peers at school. She has seen lots of my students' papers. She must know that what she can do is so different that there is almost no comparing. If she didn't know it before she channeled this chapter for Steinbeck, she knows it now.
I didn't help her write her chapter, and I almost never do anything directly related to her writing at all. I stay out of her way, let her find her own moments. If she gives me something to read, I give her a little praise and and a little criticism, but I feel that it would be a mistake for me to impose any kind of agenda on her artistic expressions or even to use my suggestions / approval / disapproval to try to shape her efforts more subtly. I have seen parents do damage this way. But I also wonder if I am missing opportunities that I could offer her.
I was relieved recently when she asked me if she could do a pottery camp this summer, because I have been feeling guilty for not working harder to get her into art classes and that sort of thing. Here, at least, was something SHE asked for to develop her art. But I don't know what to do about the writing. For now I am doing nothing. I think it is too easy to hastily do the wrong thing, and the matter seems delicate for some reason.
why
I didn't set out to write this blog about my work, but I notice that's what the last three posts are all about. I also have been noticing what topics I don't write about here. Some things are just plain off limits for public consumption (like, for example, my ex-husband). Others, I guess I am kind of watching myself to see what risks I will take. I am still keeping a private journal, which is safely tucked into my private purse, but I don't write in it as much as I used to. I am not at all sure what this blog is for. A friend asked me why I started it, and all I could really say was, I just have too many words, and I needed another place to put some. But I'm not too sure why anyone would or should care about reading them.
I often tell my students to let the writing do the thinking for them, that it's often enough just to let the words come through and then you find out something you didn't know you knew. So right now I am trying to let the words come so I can find out what my purpose might be here, in this weirdly private/public place. No one reads this, who am I kidding. It's private, in that sense. But it's out there, so it's public in that sense, and I can't write it without thinking that someone might read it.
I guess I think maybe if I do this for a while I will develop a sense of purpose, a theme, a reason to tell people, read my blog, I'm writing about this and it will be interesting to you.
I often tell my students to let the writing do the thinking for them, that it's often enough just to let the words come through and then you find out something you didn't know you knew. So right now I am trying to let the words come so I can find out what my purpose might be here, in this weirdly private/public place. No one reads this, who am I kidding. It's private, in that sense. But it's out there, so it's public in that sense, and I can't write it without thinking that someone might read it.
I guess I think maybe if I do this for a while I will develop a sense of purpose, a theme, a reason to tell people, read my blog, I'm writing about this and it will be interesting to you.
Friday, March 21, 2008
calm
"Least said, soonest mended," said Ma. This is my favorite folk proverb from the Little House on the Prairie books. It's interesting how the popular wisdom of my early life, the too-simple idea that it's important to talk things out, to speak your mind, to verbalize the garbage that the hamster spins round and round on the wheel in your head, is fading from popularity. Lately one thing I particularly like about myself is that I usually know when to shut up.
My angry student calmed down and so did I. I trust that he realized his anger was out of proportion or at least that it was not constructive and would not get him what he wanted. I tend to assume this kind of reflective capacity in others, since I have cultivated it in myself. This might be naive of me... but I hope not in this case. This particular students is in his late 30s, and he is a parent, and smart enough to have put himself in college. He is also a coach. If he doesn't have this kind of reflective capacity, then his problems go way beyond his developmental English class.
So we had a very constructive mid-term conference. Neither of us mentioned the previous episode, and we moved forward. Had either of us brought it up, we would have remained stuck in it, one or both of us either aggressive or defensive or both. By getting over it, and by not mentioning it, we were both grownups. And what a relief not to have to discuss it... leave that stupid hamster alone.
Thanks, Ma Ingalls. Off the hook, and all for the best.
My angry student calmed down and so did I. I trust that he realized his anger was out of proportion or at least that it was not constructive and would not get him what he wanted. I tend to assume this kind of reflective capacity in others, since I have cultivated it in myself. This might be naive of me... but I hope not in this case. This particular students is in his late 30s, and he is a parent, and smart enough to have put himself in college. He is also a coach. If he doesn't have this kind of reflective capacity, then his problems go way beyond his developmental English class.
So we had a very constructive mid-term conference. Neither of us mentioned the previous episode, and we moved forward. Had either of us brought it up, we would have remained stuck in it, one or both of us either aggressive or defensive or both. By getting over it, and by not mentioning it, we were both grownups. And what a relief not to have to discuss it... leave that stupid hamster alone.
Thanks, Ma Ingalls. Off the hook, and all for the best.
Monday, March 10, 2008
drama
Come to think of it, bold and audacious moves always backfire for me in the classroom. Maybe I'm just not good at gauging the level of drama I can handle.
My yield from throwing most of my students out of class last week was mainly my own anxiety over one particularly angry student who felt that I had not been fair. It's not that I was afraid of him. It's just that it's not worth the angst -- his or mine. And maybe I wasn't fair. Of course, he was still late to class today. And he handed in his make-up assignment when he got there -- I suppose he was daring me not to take it because he was late. I took it, though. It's just not worth the extra energy. I'm too tired today. I'm too tired most days. I'm not gonna do this again.
This aftermath situation is not an atmosphere that's productive for me, or for him. I hate playing the enforcer, which is one of the reasons I teach college and not high school. (Not that I ever taught high school; the difference may be something I just invented to explain myself to myself.) But I hate having the focus on whether students follow rules. I want the focus to be on what they learn, what they are curious about, what they can write, what they can do -- not what they can't do or won't do or don't do.
Every few years I have to learn this lesson over again. My friend Bob, a beloved fellow teacher at my college, whom I called this morning to whine to, remembers a time when I walked out on a class. I learned far more from that incident than those students did, as well, and I swore I would never do that again either.
I suspect that some dim archetypal image of teachers in the back of my mind tempts me to do these things. Maybe I'm trying out ideas about the kind of grandstanding teacher whose drama at the front of the room impresses everyone so much that we all think, oh, what a great teacher he (he?) is. But where is there gonna be room for the students and their drama if the teacher's drama takes up all that airtime? And aren't the students and their needs supposed to be front and center? I don't wanna be needy in my own classroom. I'm the calm one, the balanced one, the teacher who takes the long view. Patience. Not drama.
My yield from throwing most of my students out of class last week was mainly my own anxiety over one particularly angry student who felt that I had not been fair. It's not that I was afraid of him. It's just that it's not worth the angst -- his or mine. And maybe I wasn't fair. Of course, he was still late to class today. And he handed in his make-up assignment when he got there -- I suppose he was daring me not to take it because he was late. I took it, though. It's just not worth the extra energy. I'm too tired today. I'm too tired most days. I'm not gonna do this again.
This aftermath situation is not an atmosphere that's productive for me, or for him. I hate playing the enforcer, which is one of the reasons I teach college and not high school. (Not that I ever taught high school; the difference may be something I just invented to explain myself to myself.) But I hate having the focus on whether students follow rules. I want the focus to be on what they learn, what they are curious about, what they can write, what they can do -- not what they can't do or won't do or don't do.
Every few years I have to learn this lesson over again. My friend Bob, a beloved fellow teacher at my college, whom I called this morning to whine to, remembers a time when I walked out on a class. I learned far more from that incident than those students did, as well, and I swore I would never do that again either.
I suspect that some dim archetypal image of teachers in the back of my mind tempts me to do these things. Maybe I'm trying out ideas about the kind of grandstanding teacher whose drama at the front of the room impresses everyone so much that we all think, oh, what a great teacher he (he?) is. But where is there gonna be room for the students and their drama if the teacher's drama takes up all that airtime? And aren't the students and their needs supposed to be front and center? I don't wanna be needy in my own classroom. I'm the calm one, the balanced one, the teacher who takes the long view. Patience. Not drama.
Monday, March 3, 2008
homework
I teach a lot of "developmental" students at the two-year college where I work. This word, developmental, is a euphemism for what used to be called "remedial." It doesn't much matter what you call it. Teaching English to college students who can't read and write at the college level is a labor of love, an act of service, a leap of faith, a hopeless cause, casting pearls before swine... (I think I'll just keep adding to this list as I think of other cliches that fit the shoe).
So, along with a number of devoted and caring colleagues, I agonize over how best to teach these students who do not have the behaviors, habits of mind, or history of success that characterize their more academically savvy peers. They don't do their homework, and then they don't bother to lie or suck up. There's a kind of endearing honesty about this. They don't study or read, but they think they could most likely pass the test at the end of the semester anyway, which is kind of endearingly optimistic as well.
The central problem, though, is that in order for them to be more successful as students, they really have to conduct themselves differently than they have in their past school experiences. This is a very hard thing to teach, and a task that I'm not really well equipped for -- I'm not a motivational speaker or a psychologist, and I'm not licensed to prescribe any drugs. But sometimes I feel like my classes are kind of like group therapy!
Today I practiced a little "tough love." When I discovered that only four out of my eighteen students were prepared with their homework assignment at the start of today's class, I sent fourteen students away, telling them to get caught up and come back tomorrow. The four who were left did a pretty fine job with the in-class activity I had planned, and I think they learned something. Tomorrow maybe I'll find out a bit about what the others learned, but I'm a little afraid of what that might turn out to be. These students just don't process things the way I expect them to -- not just some of the time, probably not even just half the time. Really, honestly, most of the time, they just don't process things the way I expect them to. At least I know what not to expect. When I figure out what I should expect, by then I'm sure it will be time to retire.
So, along with a number of devoted and caring colleagues, I agonize over how best to teach these students who do not have the behaviors, habits of mind, or history of success that characterize their more academically savvy peers. They don't do their homework, and then they don't bother to lie or suck up. There's a kind of endearing honesty about this. They don't study or read, but they think they could most likely pass the test at the end of the semester anyway, which is kind of endearingly optimistic as well.
The central problem, though, is that in order for them to be more successful as students, they really have to conduct themselves differently than they have in their past school experiences. This is a very hard thing to teach, and a task that I'm not really well equipped for -- I'm not a motivational speaker or a psychologist, and I'm not licensed to prescribe any drugs. But sometimes I feel like my classes are kind of like group therapy!
Today I practiced a little "tough love." When I discovered that only four out of my eighteen students were prepared with their homework assignment at the start of today's class, I sent fourteen students away, telling them to get caught up and come back tomorrow. The four who were left did a pretty fine job with the in-class activity I had planned, and I think they learned something. Tomorrow maybe I'll find out a bit about what the others learned, but I'm a little afraid of what that might turn out to be. These students just don't process things the way I expect them to -- not just some of the time, probably not even just half the time. Really, honestly, most of the time, they just don't process things the way I expect them to. At least I know what not to expect. When I figure out what I should expect, by then I'm sure it will be time to retire.
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