Scones and tea

I love to cook--sometimes. Tonight began as one of those times. Now I've baked 85 scones in four varieties, craisins with nuts, chocolate chip, chocolate chip with nuts and Heath crunch, and apricot with currents. I'm waiting for the last batch to cool to finish packing them up all up. I still love cooking but my back is aching and I'm eager to be finished.

Tomorrow my students and I will share hot tea and scones at the Transcendentalist tea. It's some high effort (mostly mine) fun to culminate our study of Emerson, Thoreau, Whitman, and Dickinson. The students have chosen a Transcendentalist from a list and will come prepared to adopt the persona of that individual for about fifty minutes. They'll turn in a short research paper, mostly to prove they understand in-text citations, and share some of the accomplishments of the person they've studied with the group. I have some period music on my ipod and a few other props to make it special, flowers, white tablecloth, sugar cubes. I am psyched. It's a monumental task to get all the pieces there and set up, but once it's rolling, it's wonderful. At least, it may be. It's something I love about teaching, you never really know how things will go, but whatever happens, I plan to enjoy it.

Emerson would approve and enjoy himself. Thoreau would not attend. Whitman would make a celebrated appearance and be sure to speak to everyone. Dickinson would have tucked the invitation away with a quiet smile without considering attending, or perhaps she would attend and sit quietly in the corner observing. I'll have a few of those, I'm sure.

This is year two for the Transcendentalist tea. I can hardly wait.

Things I loved today

• My soft purple gloves
• Seeing my student's surprise at the paper-white Narcissus in my class that bloomed over the break
• Thinking about my students' lives as they came in and out
• A good nap after a dip in the hot tub
• Speed grocery shopping
• Ben and Jerry's New York Super Fudge Chunk--a farewell serving
• Hugs from my sweetie
• Beginning to enjoy my schedule again

Pretend it's still yesterday

This is the entry I would have written last night if I had taken the time away from grading to do it.

The three most overused phrases in my world--when I'm involved in a crazy quantity of grading:

• Use text support!
• Direct quotes are preferable to a paraphrase.
• No thesis statement

I guess I know what I should be focusing on as we proceed with the second half of the school year. And this is just the short list.

I think I can, I think I can...

I've had a good day gearing up for the storm of activity that is to come. When I think about all that must happen between now and Friday, it scares me. I didn't make my goal for grading, but I came darn close. I believe I can finish it tomorrow, and if one assignment has to slip to next term, life will go on. I am determined this term to not get bogged down, to turn every assignment around more quickly, to learn to love grading. (Can that even happen?) I'll stop there because I'll be setting myself up for failure if I go much farther than that.

D and I are enjoying the winter, mostly hibernating in the bedroom during home time and staying warm. We have a pretty good plan to stay warm without spending much money. I'm finally on board with his economic goal. It's basically to live as cheaply as we can--within reason--for a few months and see how much we can come out ahead now that we no longer have kids around regularly with their hands out for twenties.

Bedtime! Last night I stayed up half the night due to dread/excitement. Turns out I had nothing to get excited about. Tonight I am more sensible.

School tomorrow

Not really school, simply a work day to get ready for school which begins in earnest on Wednesday. I am less than excited about going, mostly because I've not made much of a dent in the mountain of grading I still must do before Wednesday at 10:00 am. I can do it; I will do it, but I continue to dislike it. How can I love teaching English, love talking about the works, love seeing them ponder new ideas through literature, and still hate reading their work so much? I actually remember a time in my own education when I decided to focus more on literature than teaching writing because I knew that teaching writing would lock me into a lifetime of reading bad writing. But here I am, with stacks of 10th grade work to mark and little desire to do it.

Hmm. On the bright side: I love my classroom, love my students, have a few wonderful colleagues and many others I do not know yet. My husband is wonderful, my kids are doing well, I have a new plan for my own fitness, and some optimism stored for the future. Grading papers is a minor woe. I can handle it.

Five reasons these holidays have been an odd, limbo existence.

This is part one of a year-long effort--I know, I'm a day late starting.

1. Still taking pain meds; some days are strange in that way.

2. Trash pick-up and recycle schedule is messed up and we can't get it right, can't remember what day it is for more than a few hours.

3. My DH has had a hernia repaired on 12/23 so some usual holiday activities are out.

4. I barely saw my mother and don't know when I'll see her again.

5. The weather changes so much the season makes no sense.

Oh yes, I am a teacher

I've been reluctant to begin this year. Our fearless leader hit us with a scolding over our school grade on Monday and most of the faculty were not pleased. Imagine if we told kids that they had to do better when they scored a B! Needless to say, the data did not go down well. Morale was not great and I was right there with my colleagues albeit with a knowledge that none of it really mattered.

Today was orientation. I met about 25 or 30 of my 87 Pre-IB English students and 4 of my journalism students. They are charming, smart, and ready to go to work. I remember why I do this. I hope all, or at least most, of my colleagues are feeling the same way. If so, we'll be just fine. Thank you, God, for youth and energy and another year in the classroom immersed in language.

Music and my mom

I'm a little out of sync today. According to the calendar, I should be writing a tribute to my dad. But since I spoke to him this morning, all I can think of is my mother. She took another fall in the bathroom the other day. Thankfully, she sustained only bruises and a few scrapes, but it's another sign of her decline. My mother turned eighty in February; Dad will be eighty in July. She's recently been diagnosed with lupus, and the symptoms are piling up. Decline is inevitable, but so difficult to witness, especially from many miles away. They'll be here next month for our daughter's wedding, and I've already committed to spending more time with her then. Time--such a precious resource, always slipping away.

Today I watched an American Masters episode about Pete Seeger. This little clip tells only a piece of the story. I love these shows because you find out about so much more than just one life, you see the forces of our history. My mother taught me to love history and to pay attention to it, to think about how our lives are built on the lives of those that came before us. And while she was no Pete Seeger, she also knew the power of song.

When I was a child, we sang a lot. Even outside of church, which we attended several times a week, my mother loved singing. She sang to wake us up, she sang as we worked around the house, she encouraged us to sing with her. We were all hams and didn't need prodding. We sang four-part harmony in the car on long trips. She would switch from the soprano to the alto line whenever it suited her. My father would pat his leg because he can not carry a tune. He'd join us only for the comic renditions of strange little ditties from the past. "Deedee umpy, deedee umpy, deedee umpy, dum, dum, deedee umpy, deedee umpy, deedee umpy, dum, dum." Yes, that really was one of the choruses, don't ask me why. In between the nonsense choruses were made-up-on the-spot verses that went something like: "I'm a girl, I'm a girl, and the time is spring, I like to dance and I like to sing." Any variation that fit the rhythm was permissable and rhyming was the goal, but totally optional.

Mom always loved music. She knew it could motivate, unite, strengthen. She sang a passionate rendition of "Hand me Down my Silver Trumpet" in a soulful style that was more like Ella than the choral version I've linked to here. I remember how she would patiently point to every word in the hymnbook for me as we sang in church, an action that no doubt had a role in my early reading. Her singing voice is quieter now, and I'm not around enough to know, but I hope she's still singing.

Like Pete Seeger, she also believes in the power of protest, the idea that true Americans speak out, even when their opinions are not popular, even when they are dangerous. She taught us about women's rights while rarely bringing the topic up, taught us tolerance by example, taught us the value of loving others through everything.

I wish I could spend the day with my dad today, but for reasons stated and unstated, I miss my mom.

Two steps forward, three steps back

After a bout with knee pain, I bought an assortment of orthotics to put in my shoes to improve alignment. The knee pain was gone almost immediately, so I set out a reasonable exercise plan, increasing my steps by using a pedometer, doing some stretches and yoga most days. Earlier this week a new pain began in the opposite ankle. Unfortunately, this wasn't an unfamiliar pain; I'd felt it for many months in the other ankle before giving in and having it "fixed" surgically. It was one of the most difficult, horrible experiences of my life. The doctor told me it would take a year to completely recover. He was right. Needless to say, I don't want to do this again. So, I've been taking it easy, ice, heat, anti-inflammatories. I've even ordered a kit for a custom set of shoe inserts from these folks. All this because of flat feet! I wish I had known years ago about the consequences for not wearing good arch support. Not sure that would have made me do it, but at least I could have said I knew better. But now I've seen some improvement and refuse to let this curtail all the fun this summer. I have better things to do than worry about what hurts and why. How inconvenient to be a flimsy human!

The Beginning of the End

Today is the first day of final exams. Today is the last day I will see my first and second period classes. Today is the day I say goodbye to Mike--not this boy's real name, but it might have been if he had been born when I was. Mike has greeted me at my door at whatever time I've arrived since day one of the school year. There were less than a handful of days when he was absent. Mike, as he is eager to tell you, has Asperger's syndrome. Extremely high functioning in some areas, he is woefully blind in others. Mike gets the work in English class. He is learning to have something to say about literature and support it from the text, but it's not an easy task for him. He wants things nailed down. Concrete answers don't just seem like a good idea, you can sense his discomfort when they don't come.

We've had many interesting conversations this year. Well, that's overstatement, we've had many peculiar conversations that he may have found interesting. Recently, when the rain didn't seem it would ever stop, we had one like this:

M: So, exactly how long does a N'reaster last? (Proud of the knowledge he has, as always)
Me: Well, Mike, there are many factors contributing to storms...(some rot about high pressure and low pressure and the big cloud that covered the state). Maybe you should ask a science teacher.
M: (Weak smile) So, we don't really know, right?
Me: Yes, that's about it.

Mike has read the required number of books independently this year. Every book has been about Asperger's or autism. Every single one! I was impressed that he was able to find this number and variety on the topic. Perhaps he thinks one of those books will hold the key to understanding his own brain. If only we all could have the field of inquiry on the craziness that happens inside our heads whittled down to a few managable texts. I am sure at age 16 I would have wanted to get through them all, too.

Earlier in the year the sight of him huddled in his sweatshirt on my ramp would dig at me a little. I always have a short list of things that must be done between the time I get to my classroom and class begins. I've always treasured those few minutes of peace to assemble my day. I haven't had that this year. Instead, there was a steady, polite stream of questions, ranging from those with answers he should have known (Yes, there is a vocab quiz on Friday; it's on the board), to the truly esoteric. In the last month or so, I've come to love Mike and his uniqueness in a new way, probably just from knowing that this time would soon be passing. In just over eighty days he'll be sitting on some other teacher's ramp, waiting for that unsuspecting soul to arrive. A science teacher, I hope.

Fascinating!

I'll use this quote in class today:

Politics in a literary work, is like a gun shot in the middle of a concert, something vulgar, and however, something which is impossible to ignore. -Stendhal

It's a fine place in our curriculum for it as we're into "The Crucible" now. I'm reserving judgement on Miller. But the quote helped me discover this compelling bit of trivia. Who knew there was a name for the euphoria/fatigue of travel?

A discovery from down under

While surfing and reading poetry I found this treasure. I don't have time to be a true poetry fanatic, but I'll be spending some time there next week, as spring break gives me what feels now like a mountain of time.

I arrived at Jacket by way of Jack Spicer, a poet whose work I had not encountered before. So many poems, so little time. Here's the Jack Spicer poem I shared today:


This ocean, humiliating in its disguises
Tougher than anything.
No one listens to poetry. The ocean
Does not mean to be listened to. A drop
Or crash of water. It means
Nothing.
It
Is bread and butter
Pepper and salt. The death
That young men hope for. Aimlessly
It pounds the shore. White and aimless signals. No
One listens to poetry.
--------------------------

Poetry still does it for me. I'm in love again.

Do I dare to eat a peach?

April is poetry month as many of you are surely aware. This year I decided to do what I've only considered doing in years gone by. I'll begin each class in April with a poem. There isn't room in my curriculum for all the poetry I'd like to teach, but this should be enough to satisfy my own need and give me a way to keep myself fully engaged. Today was day one--I know I'm a slacker and missed the first real day--and we read "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T. S. Eliot. I chose it because English Journal sent me a poster in the latest edition with the phrase "Do I dare disturb the universe?" This provided a nice beginning to the month--even better is that T.S. Eliot's ruminations on life and impeding death match up with some of the circumstances in our text The Grapes of Wrath. With the challenge of teaching teenagers about the vicissitudes of birth and death, Steinbeck's tendency to allusion is catching. I feel as though I am casting pearls before swine, but maybe a few of them see the value.

I hate fundraising!

I did not go into sales for a reason. I think the current method for funding schools is insufficient, but I do not encourage my students to become peddlers or money-raisers of any variety. Teenagers have more important things to do than beg for money to give to their school, particularly one that is not doing such a great job. There's not enough paper! Is this a student problem? A teacher problem? Should it be?

Reflections on my current brood

Begin here: My students are...

It's frightening how many ways I could finish that statement this time around. This year's bunch is the most recalcitrant group of smart pseudo-scholars I've met yet. That's saying not much really as this is only the second bunch of tenth graders I've taught, but I am surprised at the amount of cajoling, threatening, and pushing that it's taken to get this bunch moving. And still, as we approach the week in which we conference and counsel students and parents about entrance into the oh-so prestigious IB program, I have qualms about many of them. I don't like this part. I try to back up, knowing that I have little at stake and the family we're talking with feels like it's life-changing. For many, I expect it is. Even if a kid has done poorly in my class, I won't be the one to say he or she can't be a part of the program. I'll report the student's performance as objectively as I can; the grades tell most of the story, but I won't make a recommendation. I act like a politician and say something vague; I vote present. Who am I to say they won't get their heads together in the next six months? It could happen. I recall how incensed I was (two angry letters and a phone call) when a counselor looked at my genius son's pitiful GPA in the beginning of the ninth grade and said, "Well, you know college is out of the question." Maybe I needed a son like that to make me fully aware that grades don't tell the whole story.

And thank heaven that I don't have to measure my teaching by the FCAT! As grateful as I am that my students do extremely well on standardized tests, it makes seeing growth even more difficult. Just now I am seeing some progress with these kids, but before the test they were all just playing the game. To me, playing the school game means doing every assignment with little engagement or enthusiasm and then anxiously tending your grade in each class. These kids say things out of the blue like, "You wouldn't happen to remember my grade in your class, would you?" Nearly every assignment discussion is focused on quantity, how many words, how many sources, how many points. Of course, they focus mostly on the points. AAUUUURRGGH!

The progress that I'm seeing coincides with our long journey westward with the Joads. Yes, I lead/push/bribe/drag them through The Grapes of Wrath. Many are reading with interest, many are reading out of duty, but it seems even the few who have not been reading may be doing so now. On the discussion board I've asked them to find their own connection to the novel and it's great to finally see them encouraging each other to read and to begin seeing the novel with different eyes. And we're not even to California yet.

Grades are due Monday. As usual I have more to grade than I can do, but that is because I make them write so much. Aren't they lucky? I wish I had had a teacher like me.