Writing Teachers Writing: RWP's eAnthology

Carol Crivelli's Inquiry Paper

2007-11-10T16:41:00.000-08:00

Carol Crivelli

WHAT I DID ON MY SUMMER VACATION

Inquiry: Writing Mentors

I have never thought of myself as a writer, even when I was a kid. I remember hiding those papers with red corrections scribbled in the margins. I was too embarrassed to read the comments let alone let anyone see them. I don’t remember conferencing with teachers or that there was a revision process back then. Our first draft was our last draft. I learned very early that writers were people with a natural talent for writing; and if you didn’t produce writing that was original and without flaws you just weren’t a writer. I carried this misconception about writers into my adulthood. I avoid things, like many people do, that I’m not good at. I don’t play softball or sing in a choir.

So why I did I take a 3 week writing course during my summer vacation? Well, one of my best friends, who happens to be a director of the Redwood Writing Project has been after me for years, that’s one reason. And another, I knew I needed some support to improve my teaching of writing. Before this class I’d read a few good books on writing, but they hadn’t given me the confidence I needed to help me with writing. For years I’ve been hearing the words, “Teachers of writing need to write,” and they’ve been haunting me. I’ve been a closet non-writer and I just felt it was time to come out!

In my search for a topic of inquiry for the writing class, I decided to look for something that would help me improve my writing, help improve my student’s writing and improve my teaching of writing. In that search I met my friend and mentor, Carl Anderson. (I know him only through his book.) His book, How’s it Going? A Practical Guide to Conferring with Student Writers, teaches the skill of conferencing. In chapter 4 of this book, he describes how he helps his students during conferences, to use “writing mentors” to improve writing. In his book, Carl defines “writing mentors” as favorite authors that we learn the craft of writing from. Also in this chapter he shares a “secret.” The secret is Ralph Fletcher author of, What a Writer Needs, is his personal writing mentor! He writes that he could be yours (mine) too. And he said he’s inexpensive, (only $17.00, I checked on Amazon.com.) Carl Anderson goes on to explain when writing his book How’s it Going?, that he couldn’t figure out how to organize his first chapter. He struggled and struggled until he picked up Ralph Fletcher’s book, What a Writer Needs. Carl took a technique from Ralph’s book that helped him write that chapter.

So a writing mentor isn’t usually a person, but rather a text that a student or teacher, author, or anyone chooses to learn from. It’s an “I want to write just like that book.” Established writers, writers of writing even, get stuck and go to their favorite books for help. This was an epiphany moment for me! Real writers struggle that much? Now I’m asking, all the great books on my shelves, can they be writing mentors? The answer is yes! It’s like great paintings on a museum wall, many artists study Cezanne’s “Still Life with Curtain,” and Degas’ “Before the Ballet,” or Matisse’s “Red Room,” their craft of line, color, form or principles of design. Just like artists get inspired by artists, real writers get inspiration from the craft of other writers.

How come I didn’t see this connection to my own writing before? I think it is because as a child I learned that writers had to have a unique (not like anybody else) style. They don’t. In reading Katie Wood Ray’s book, Wondrous Words, she declares that writers make their own choices about their writing, but their styles can be alike, and very importantly this means writers are not entirely unique! WOW! That opens windows and doors for me! Being a unique writer was something I realized a long time ago was impossible for me, so I stopped trying. I stopped writing. In Ray’s book she reminds us that writers have been imitating other writer’s techniques for centuries. “Writers own words, but they do not own technique.” Writers choose their own topics but can imitate other writer’s craft techniques.

In The Art of Teaching Writing, Lucy Calkins points out that, “students must be aware of the author’s intentions and techniques when they read, to be able to borrow them.” In other words, students need to “read like writers.” I’m an artist and I love to visit art galleries. Over the years my husband’s appreciation for art has grown. However, when we look at artworks we are not “reading” them in the same way. I am noticing how an effect was created. He is looking for meaning “what is it?” I look at art with a plan to make art. “Reading like a writer” is reading with a plan to write. What Fletcher, Anderson, Calkins and Ray all say in their books is when we teach our students to read like writers they will write better! We need to teach students to read like writers. In Wondrous Words, Katie Wood Ray describes how to read like a writer in 5 steps:

1. Notice 2. Talk 3. Name 4. Other authors 5. Envision

The first step is to notice the part of the text that you really like. Second, it to ask yourself, what is the author doing in the part that you like? Third, ask yourself, how is the author doing it? And name the author’s technique. Fourth, is to think of other authors who use the same techniques. This is important because it teaches that experienced writers copy each other’s techniques and that demonstrates that if they can, we can too. Fifth, the last step is to envision; think of a way you can use the same craft in your own writing.

Students and teachers purposefully make reading and writing connections when we model reading like a writer: read and talk about what the author did and how the author accomplished it. We make reading and writing connections when we teach craft lessons, and during writing conferences when we encourage students to use techniques in their writing. We make reading and writing connections when we read aloud to our students and they hear and notice words in beautifully written texts. Students can also make these connections during independent reading. Carl Anderson explains, “When we are successful in showing students how to learn from writing mentors, we teach students how to teach themselves.”

In our classrooms we can make charts to document what students notice about books and record techniques the author used. The connections students make during reading can also be referred to by students during writing!

Craft Inquiry- Reading Like a Writer

Author

Book Title

Text

(example)

What type of craft?

(leads, endings, etc.)

Technique- How is it done? (dialogue, describe setting, etc.)

Have I ever seen another author craft this way?

Student tried this technique

Revised Inquiry chart found in Wondrous Words, by Katie Wood Ray

In my reading I found many sources of books lists for “touchstone” or “mentor texts” or “writing mentors.” Picture books are popular on these lists because they are short and have illustrations. A variety of text is necessary because student choice of writing mentors is important. Students will more likely try to write like their mentor when they chose it, because they like and connect with that text. Below find sources of booklists.

Anderson, Carl. 2000. How’s it Going? A Practical Guide to Conferring

With Student Writers. Portsmouth, NH: Heinemann.

Calkins, Lucy McCormick. 1994. The Art of Teaching Writing. Portsmouth, NH: Heinemann.

Culham, Ruth. 2004. Using Picture Books to Teach Writing with the Traits. New York: Scholastic Inc. (grades 3 and up)

Fletcher, Ralph and Portalupi, Joann. 1998. Craft Lessons – Teaching Writing K-8. Portland, Maine: Stenhouse Publishers

Harwayne, Shelley. 2001. Writing Through Childhood, Rethinking Process and Product. Portsmouth, NH: Heinemann.

Ray, Katie Wood. 1999. Wondrous Words. Urbana, Illinois: National Council of Teachers of English.

Web Resources

100 Best Books for Children

www.teachersfirst.com/100books.htm

Selected by the National Education Association as great reading for children and young people, this site offers recommendations are grouped by age level and include links to the books and authors.

Writing Fix

www.writingfix.com/Picture_Books_and_Traits.htm

Designed by teachers for teachers, this site features writing lessons inspired by favorite picture books-designed by teachers for teachers.

I’m thrilled to find so many books that have been researched and identified for specific teaching purposes but I wonder still, how do I know which ones to choose? There are so many! Carl Anderson suggests coming up with 25 mentor texts. He suggests we first look at the texts we have, the ones we love and read often.

When I read words by Carl Anderson, Lucy Calkins, Ralph Fletcher, Katie Wood Ray, and others I recognize my need for new conference revision strategies, my need to pay closer attention to reading and writing connections students make, my need to help students read like writers and to take what they learned from authors and move it into their own writing. All this I learned from my inquiry into WRITING MENTORS. And they can be addressed using writing mentors. This year I’m going to continue my inquiry. I’m going to change my approach to writing from a prescriptive one, to a more descriptive one. I will focus less on following the “rules” and focus more on noticing and talking about what we see and how it works. Hopefully this will lead my students to use text they love, use text as writing mentors to help them structure a piece, make transitions, use flashbacks, or describe a character, lead or ending.

I definitely feel I have found enough evidence to where I am now envisioning teaching my students to read like writers and introducing them to mentors. I think I’m ready because of the Writing Project, I’ve had time to notice what I need to do, talk about it and write about it. I hope this will bring me success. I am ready to experience it. The really big idea I’ve learned this summer is that we can all be writers! I want to teach that to my students. I want all my students to see themselves as writers. I plan on sharing my own writing. When I get stuck, I will do what other writers do, get help from writing mentors.

References

Anderson, Carl. 2000. How’s it Going? A Practical Guide to Conferring

With Student Writers. Portsmouth, NH: Heinemann.

Buckner, Aimee DiMuzio. “Using Authors as Mentors”. Primary Voices Volume 7, Number 4 (April 1999).

Calkins, Lucy McCormick. 1994. The Art of Teaching Writing. Portsmouth, NH: Heinemann.

Cappelli, Rose & Dorfman, Lynne. 2007. Mentor Texts, Teaching Writing Through Children’s Literature, K-6. Portland, Maine: Stenhouse Publishers.

Culham, Ruth. 2004. Using Picture Books to Teach Writing with the Traits. New York: Scholastic Inc. (grades 3 and up)

DeCristofaro, Dina Sechio. “Author to Author: How Text Influences Young Writers”. The Quarterly (Spring 2001). National Writing Project.

http://www.writing project.org/cs/nwpp/lpt/nwpr/146

Fletcher, Ralph and Portalupi, Joann. 1998. Craft Lessons – Teaching Writing K-8. Portland, Maine: Stenhouse Publishers.

Fletcher, Ralph. 1993 What a Writer Needs. Portsmouth, NH: Heinemann.

Greenfield, Eloise. 1986. Honey, I Love, and Other Love Poems. Illustrated by Diane and Leo Dillon. New York: Harper.

Heard, Georgia. 1992. Creatures of Earth, Sea, and Sky: Poems. Illustrated by Jennifer Owings Dewey. Honesdale, PA: Wordsong.

Ray, Katie Wood. 1999. Wondrous Words. Urbana, Illinois: National Council of Teachers of English.

To Do List

2007-09-16T19:46:00.001-07:00

Fix Carol Crivelli's page
Fix configuration
Add index by author

Melanie Nannizzi's "Balancing Process and Product in Writing Instruction"

2007-09-16T16:50:00.000-07:00

As a third grade teacher, I feel a great sense of responsibility in laying the foundation for my students to enjoy writing and for them to experience success in this challenging task. The standards for writing in the fourth grade increase substantially in comparison to the third grade and I want my students to feel prepared for rigorous writing expectations that lie ahead. As a result of this desire, I have focused a lot of time and energy on the study of teaching expository writing to students in the primary grades. I have been reviewing literature surrounding this topic and I have interviewed and surveyed other elementary educators regarding their teaching practices in this area.

Through this research I have found that there is a trend in teaching expository writing. Teachers tend to either take a process based, or a product based approach to writing instruction. Product based instruction is a teacher-led method that uses model pieces of writing and specific assignments that require students to imitate a pattern or rule. Much of the writing process is carried out by the teacher in the form of class discussion and direct instruction and when the student’s written product is complete, the teacher provides written feedback. In this traditional instructional approach, teachers expect students to effectively apply the new knowledge to their writing. Writing is defined as students having knowledge about the structure of language, and writing development is defined as students successfully imitating the model text provided by the teacher. While this structure offers students guidelines on how to create a piece of writing, they do not have the opportunity to write for authentic audiences and experience the writing process.

Research done on writing instruction in the 1970s and 1980 gave way to a shift in writing instruction from a focus on product to process. Researcher teachers such as Donald Graves advocated for a process approach that emphasizes the cognitive processes and strategies used by effective writers by encouraging students to plan and revise, providing feedback during conferences, creating learning communities where students assist one another, and delivering process-oriented instruction through mini-lessons. This teaching model can produce more original student writing that is not mechanical and the use of free writing, without traditional remediation instruction, is effective because it increases students’ writing fluency. .

I have struggled to combine the strengths of both the process and product based approaches to teaching expository writing in my classroom. When using the process based approach to writing instruction, I found that I was not effective in providing my students with clear enough guidelines about the different genres of writing. There writing was unorganized and lacked the clarity it needed to have focus, yet I firmly believe in the principals of the process approach. I just needed a way to make it work for me.

This year I had the opportunity to attend the Step Up to Writing workshop on expository writing. I felt that what I learned at the workshop truly complemented the research that I had been doing and gave me the tools to implement a curriculum that emphasizes the importance of both the process and the product in our classroom. The Step Up to Writing curriculum focuses on teaching students how to write topic sentences and creating a plan, or an outline, for their writing before they begin to compose. The students receive direct instruction about how to create a plan, and how to turn that plan into an organized piece of writing. They also have the opportunity to go through the entire writing process, with a true understanding of the purpose of their writing while writing in the content areas.

I truly enjoyed implementing this curriculum in my classroom this year. I found that my students’ writings were more fluent, comprehensible, and organized than in the years past. The outline that the students created before they wrote was very helpful for multiple reasons. Primarily, it provided the students with a structure and organization that they had been lacking, but it was also very helpful for those students that were struggling with writing incomplete and run on sentences. The outline helped them to distinguish complete thoughts from incomplete and run on thoughts.

Another huge benefit that I noticed using this curriculum was that the students were very excited about writing and they were very engaged in the process. I think that primary reason for this excitement was that the curriculum teaches the students to plan their writing using three different colors of pens. They use a green pen for their main idea or topic sentence, they use a yellow pen for their subtopics, and they use a red pen for the supporting details. The students were so enthusiastic about using the colored pens that they seemed to forget that making an outline was laborious. I thought that the novelty of using the pens would quickly wear off, but it did not seem to. The students also enjoyed writing in the content areas because they were writing about topics that they knew a lot about. Their rich prior knowledge and enthusiasm about the topics they had been studying helped them to feel uninhibited about getting their ideas on paper.

I experienced great success with this curriculum, but there are some aspects of this teaching method that I do not like and I hope that I can improve upon. Although I originally believed that this curriculum would provide the students with the perfect balance between process and product, after seeing the results of using the curriculum for a year I now see that it relies more heavily on the product approach. The curriculum is very formulaic. The students are taught transition words, concluding words, and are given a very constricting way to plan their writing. Sometimes I would go through a stack of papers in which ten students had used the closing statement, “All in all” while the remaining students used the words, “As you can see.” Although the organization and readability improved, their writing was unoriginal and the student’s voice was lost. In order for them to be prepared for the fourth grade I need to foster more original sounding writing. I would like to work on helping students to use this structure, but still find their original voice in their writing.

Another way that I would like to improve my use of this curriculum is to spend time determining where I can integrate expository writing into all of the content areas. I think that this type of writing can provide an excellent way for students to demonstrate what they have learned in a unit of study or in their expository reading. I consistently find that I do not spend enough time on expository writing and I think that finding ways to integrate it into other curricular areas will help me to make writing a priority.

One of the greatest gifts of this profession is that each year you get a fresh start. With reflection and innovation you can improve your practice with each new group of students. Participating in the Redwood Writing Project Summer Institute offered me the perfect forum for reflection and inquiry about writing instruction and I feel inspired devote myself to making this curriculum my own in the coming school year.

Jennifer Pierce's "Journals: Time Well Spent"

2007-09-16T16:33:00.000-07:00

The first journal I ever kept was a small, red, leatherette diary with a key that a girlfriend had given me for a birthday present. I was eight years old, and in Mrs. Gruzynski’s third grade. That journal held my private thoughts, my crushes, my complaints, hopes, dreams, poems, favorite song lyrics, lists and doodles. It was here where I first found my voice as a writer, and where I claimed writing as my personal tool- something that I could use to catalogue my thoughts.

Years later, while teaching fourth grade for the first time, I decided to give my students their own journal. I had them write in it every day, sometimes giving them a prompt, sometimes asking them to write about whatever they wanted, and I would collect and respond to them once a week. I had always kept a journal and thought they would enjoy it too. I hoped I would learn about my students, create a dialogue with them, and inspire them to write for the sake of writing. When the journals came in each week, I would pour over their thoughts, commenting, questioning, cheering, sympathizing, but never grading them. I spent hours reading my students’ journals and responding to them with lengthy, thoughtful entries of my own. If a child didn’t want me to read something they had written, I told them to fold over that page and I would respect their privacy. Journal writing was the favorite time of day for most of my students, and often the fifteen minutes I had allotted would stretch into twenty or thirty as they begged for more time to finish. I continued journaling with my class all that year and the next.

Then things began to change. Our school hired a new superintendent, and part of his regime was to require we turn in our lessons plans for the week before we taught so that he could review the content we were teaching and how much time we spent on each subject. This was in conjunction with our school being put on probation for performing a few points lower on the STAR tests than we had the previous year. Furthermore, we had just lost a big chunk of our prep time and I was feeling overwhelmed by the work I had to take home each night. We had just finished spending months redoing our report cards in an effort to make them more “parent friendly.” As I planned out my year that August, I began to rethink my use of journals. I worried that it was time I couldn’t justify spending- after all I didn’t grade them, they weren’t a “product” that I shared with parents, and I didn’t have a place for them on our report cards. I felt great pressure to spend my time following our recently adopted Language Arts program which didn’t address journals, instead offering workbook pages of mechanics practice and writing prompts tied into the reading selections of the week. There just wasn’t time in my school day for journals and, I admitted to myself, with the challenge of a new Language Arts program, turning in weekly lesson plans, and the pressure to make sure I was teaching towards successful STAR testing, I didn’t have the time to read through and respond to my students’ journals anyway. So I stripped journal writing time from my lesson plans, and as mounting pressures at work began to seep into my home life, I stopped finding the time to journal at home as well. Without realizing it, journal writing had disappeared from my life.

Now it’s a decade later, and I am in the midst of Redwood Writing Project’s Summer Institute. Part of our involvement included researching and responding to a topic we felt was important related to writing. I was pouring over my Writer’s Workshop books trying to decide what I wanted to write this inquiry paper about and, further down the line, what I wanted to present for a workshop. I was overwhelmed by the sheer amount of ideas that poured into my brain. Perhaps I could research how to set up a Writer’s Workshop? Or maybe I would concentrate on just peer editing? Should I think about the teacher conferencing aspect? That led me to think about responding to student writing. Flipping through Adele Fiderer’s Teaching Writing: A Workshop Approach, I discovered her section on student notebooks. I started reading and thought to myself, “Oh yeah! I used to do that!” Then as I read on, I began to wonder, “Now, why did I stop using journals?” and “Could I do this with my third graders?” Finally I thought, “What benefits will this give my students- it’s a big investment of my time, so it better have practical applications and measureable results!” That was when I decided what to write my inquiry about: Why journal writing is an important part of the writing curriculum, and how to use journal writing in the classroom.

I believe, and my experiences have proven to me, that keeping a journal is one of the most enjoyable and liberating forms of writing we can do, and I am excited with the idea of being able to confirm that journal writing is a valuable tool in the classroom. I decided to research journal writing and gather support from teaching professionals to validate using journals to myself, my colleagues, my students, and their families. While researching, I planned to explore the differences between diary keeping versus keeping a journal or notebook. Furthermore, I wanted to explore how much time to give students to write, how often, what to require, whether or not to grade or assess their journal writing, and how to go about getting started. I also wondered if my student journals should be teacher directed, focused through mini-lessons, include word banks, have sections for story starters, and/or require writing to become a finished product.

Why is journal writing an important part of our curriculum? In the many books I used for research, I kept seeing a recurring theme: providing daily writing opportunities for children, beginning in kindergarten, is necessary for the growth and development of their writing. Journals or notebooks are an important form of writing because “expressive writing appeals to the intrapersonal, logical, mathematical and linguistic multiple intelligences. Journals have an unstructured approach that stimulates inventiveness and problem solving.” (Hughey, 2001) In other words, through writing in journals students make sense of the world around them. Journals can be personal sounding boards, allowing writers to examine their thoughts and ideas without feeling the pressure to produce a product. Journals are also a safe place to experiment with style, voice, mechanics and form. Journals can provide a teacher-student connection, giving students a chance to speak out in a risk-free environment. This allows opportunities for greater self-examination, therapeutic qualities such as stress reduction, and a chance to accept input in a comfortable way. Journal writing is also an excellent way to motivate writers: they have control of their topics, which allows them to write for personal and significant reasons.

Journals can provide an excellent source of topics to use within the Writer’s Workshop model, starting out as ideas and then being fleshed out and revised into published pieces. As children’s poet and author Jack Prelutsky wrote, “I save all my idea notebooks. I have at least fifty- and when I’m ready to write another book of poems I start working my way through all the notebooks…” And as if this wasn’t enough to convince you, after looking through the California English-Language Arts Content Standards, one would find justification for journal keeping under writing strategies, organization, focus, evaluation, applications and genre. In the multitude of research I encountered, study after study, teacher after teacher, the results of journal keeping were clear: students who use journals are more invested in their writing, are more able to express themselves clearly, develop a stronger voice and better vocabulary, and can experiment with and develop their use of genre, technique, mechanics and style. In short, the measureable results I needed to see were all there; students will grow as writers through journal writing.

One of the most powerful insights I had after researching journal writing is that there is really no wrong way to keep a journal. One distinction that was made for me was the difference between diary keeping and notebook keeping. A diary is usually a brief summary of events with a date. It records facts in bare detail, and is often just a record of the day’s happenings. A journal, on the other hand, is a personal written record of “one person’s feelings, interests, events, descriptions, experiences, memories and reactions.” (Hughey, 2001) Although it too has a date, and may record a day’s events, in a journal writers delve deeper into their thoughts. Student journal writing can also be focused into specific areas depending on the needs of the teacher.

There are a nearly infinite amount of ways to incorporate journal writing into your classroom. Here is a brief summary of some of the most common uses for classroom notebooks:

• Learning journals, sometimes called “learning logs” in which students examine topics they are studying in any area of the curriculum. There are literature response journals, which combine personal written responses with learning outcomes through reading and reacting, evaluating and sharing.

• Dialect journals pose an idea and then give the writer the task of identifying the issue and responding to it.

• Shared journals where the writer writes for a specific purpose and to a predetermined audience; an example would be Lewis and Clark’s trip journal written for the people back home detailing the new sights, sounds, animals, plants and experiences on their journey.

• Paired dialogue journals in which a lower grade student is partnered with an upper grade student, and the journal is a continuing dialogue between the buddies.

• Personal journals where students are given time to write “whatever they want” and may ask questions of the teacher, tell what has happened to them, explore their dreams, thoughts, or ideas, as well as create lists, stories, and poetry.

How can a teacher incorporate journals into her classroom writing time? Journal time can follow a mini-lesson on genre, mechanics, voice or any other aspect of writing as a way to incorporate the learned technique. On the flip side, you can use student journals to help you decide which mini-lessons need to be taught after examining your students’ writing. Sometimes teachers may give writing prompts to focus students before or after a lesson. Journal quick writes are an excellent way to gather prior knowledge before embarking on new subjects. When you are outside of the classroom don’t forget that journals are portable, making them an ideal field trip companion for quick writes, observations, or questions. In all these areas and more, journals can simply be used in their most pure form: to give your students an outlet for creative expression and introspection, a place to “dream, philosophize, imagine, vent, figure things out.” In short, to chronicle your “life’s journey-thus the term journal.” (Woodward, 1996)

No matter how you have your students keep a journal, if you give your students time to write, they will reap all the benefits of writing. The question then becomes, how much time is enough? The old adage that practice makes perfect is certainly true with writing. The more time you give, the better writers your students become. But how should we incorporate journal time into our already busy schedules? An idea that cropped up over and over in my reading was that daily journal writing reaps the most rewards. Setting the time aside daily creates the writing habit and helps students buy-in to the process and come full circle with expression and introspection. However, while establishing a routine is important, the amount of time you dedicate each day can vary greatly. The professional books I read recommended quick writes from as little as two to five minutes a day, all the way up to 30 minute blocks. This is excellent news to teachers who wonder where to squeeze in a daily journal write.

My experience has shown that younger children often need more time- at least ten minutes to get down one or two thoughts, as they are often hindered by their inexperience with writing and their lack of speed. Regardless, even a short period of journal writing each day will provide students with a creative outlet and much needed practice. As students grow as writers they may be able to write several thoughts or answer a prompt in only a few minutes. Of course, depending on how you use journals in your classroom, you will want to modify the time for assignments to meet your needs. If you want a written response to a math question that is stumping the class, a quick two minute explanation may suffice. However, if you want your students to relate an incident in your social studies lesson to their real life experiences, you may need to give them more time to process, plan and execute a meaningful response.

Journal writing can become an integral part of your writing workshop. Teachers use journals to brainstorm, make lists of interesting story starters and topics, create word lists, and answer teacher given prompts. Often teachers find that students who are given the permission to write about anything they want will get inspired by a story or idea and then develop it further during the writer’s workshop. Although journal writing does not need to create a finished product, it is often the nursery for ideas that later hatch into published pieces. As children’s author Lois Lowry points out about journals, “Stories don’t just appear out of nowhere. They need a ball that starts to roll.”

Should we grade our student journals? The short answer from all the sources I encountered was a resounding NO! As pointed out in Writing Through Childhood by Shelley Harwayne, “Journals are a safe place to start writing, without grades but with supportive and interested comments from the teacher…journals serve as a bridge between teacher and student, providing opportunities for mentoring and mutual trust.” Grading isn’t necessary, and in fact may sabotage some of the benefits of keeping a journal. Instead, as Harwayne pointed out, there will be an investment of time from the teacher being the reader/responder. Here is a wonderful side effect of classroom journals- they provide a place to foster relationships between the teacher and her students, providing opportunities to personally respond to a student’s thoughts, questions, and dilemmas.

One year I had a student whose parents were divorcing and she wrote in her journal that she had woken up in the middle of the night because she heard crying. After walking down to the kitchen she found her father in tears. She snuck back to her room before he saw her, but was worried and upset. She wrote, “Mrs. Pierce, what should I do? Should I talk to him? What if he doesn’t want me to know? I just wanted to give him a hug- do you think that would have been okay?” Of course I was able to write back to her with some hints about what she might do. Furthermore it alerted me to her anxiety, and I took steps to make sure she got the support she needed. The journal gave her a safe place to write about a frightening and potentially embarrassing situation- one she might never have shared with me otherwise.

Reading and responding to student journals does take time, but teachers may make up some of that time in other ways. For one thing, as children spend more time observing and writing from their own experiences, developing rich details and thoughtful entries, their published pieces will evolve from writing that needs fewer revisions and drafts. (Harwayne, 2001) If you are uncomfortable, as I was, spending time on assignments that can’t be graded, consider this: journals should be thought of as a testing ground for thought. Teachers can use journals throughout the curriculum to help kids synthesize information before sharing in class discussions, taking exams, or writing critical papers. In writing formal assignments, journals will help students to explore, clarify, modify and extend topics, and these in turn will be graded. The more I read, the more I saw journal writing as a support tool, much like flashcards are in math, and I no longer worried about spending time on something that didn’t receive a grade.

There was one more question- how often should I respond to my students’ journals. Again, I found there was no one right way to do this. Each teacher needs to consider her own schedule, time, and needs. Adele Fiderer recommended the following: “It is a good idea to collect notebooks every three weeks so that you can help your students look for a theme emerging out of their entries.” She goes on to say that if you stagger your students’ turn-in days, you can pace yourself. Some teachers respond directly to students on the journal pages, others prefer using Post-It notes. However you choose to do it, make sure that you comment specifically on what students have written, perhaps writing questions you have, or asking them for clarification. Stay away from value judgements, mechanics pointers, and criticism.

Working with students means that we will inevitably find some bad language, negative comments, inappropriate or worrisome themes. How should we respond to these? The technique I used was to tell students that they should fold over any page(s) that they didn’t want me to read, giving them the freedom to express without fear of repercussions. You may want to tell your class that they can write what they want, but if they wish to share or publish a piece, it must be school appropriate. Another way to handle this, before you begin journal writing with your students, make it clear to them that you are a mandated reporter. Let them know what that entails, and have a discussion about the ramifications this may have in their writing. Teachers must be the ones to set their own boundaries and guidelines while thinking about grade level, comfort level, classroom climate, and expectations. One colleague of mine expressed a concern over liability- what if a student threatens harm to himself or others? Do we have a legal obligation to report this, and can we be held liable? I think of it this way: you are a mandated reporter, but you do not have a patient/doctor confidentiality clause. Your students safety is your number one concern regardless of privacy. Therefore, report anything that is threatening to the writer or others right away to cover comply with the law and keep everyone safe.

One of the most meaningful ways to interest your students in journal writing is to share entries from your own journal. What an empowering example you can be! As I learned during my time in the Redwood Writing Project, teachers need to make writing part of their professional practice in order to be effective teachers of writing. Thinking back to my prior experiences using journals in the classroom, I am proud of myself for giving my students such a valuable tool. I regret stopping, but realize that growth comes through change, and even though ten years have passed, I can easily bring journal writing back into my daily classroom routine. Another important change is that I have brought journals back into my personal life. I purchased a new, blank journal recently and have made the commitment to spend some time each week writing. I plan on keeping a journal at school as well, and to declare daily journal writing time as sacred. I will join my students as they write, and share as they share. A colleague of mine made this brilliant suggestion: keep my classroom journal on my desk and have it available for students to read during free reading time. Keep Post-Ii notes available, and ask them to respond to my writing. What an empowering experience for the students! I can’t wait to try it!

The time to present my findings to my teaching fellows was drawing near. As I was preparing my workshop on journal writing, I decided I should present some evidence, some examples of journal writing. I didn’t have any student samples since I hadn’t had classroom journals for almost a decade. I was dedicated to starting them for this school year, but that still left me with no tangible evidence of notebook keeping. On a whim I searched through my house and found three of my childhood journals. How amazing it was to look back at my thoughts, poems, and stories, told in my own words. Like a time capsule, it brought me back to a different time and place. I had the evidence to share, and possibly the single most compelling reason to journal; you are helping your students create something they will look at again and again, and treasure for a lifetime. If nothing else, you can journal for posterity and, in the future, you will have a record of time well spent.

Fiderer, A. 1993. Teaching Writing: A Workshop Approach. Scholastic Inc. New York, NY.

Fountas, I.& Pinnell, G. 2001. Guiding Readers and Writers Grades 3 – 6. Heinemann. Portsmouth, NH.

Frank, M. 1979. If You’re Trying To Teach Kids To Write… Incentive Publications, Inc. Nashville, TN.

Harwayne, S. 2001. Writing Through Childhood- Rethinking Process and Product. Heinemann. Portsmouth, NH.

Hughey, J. & Slack, C. 2001. Teaching Children To Write- Theory Into Practice. Prentice-Hall Inc. Upper Saddle River, NJ.

LeCount, D. 2002. Nonstandardized Quests. Heinemann. Portsmouth, NH.

National Writing Project & Nagin, C. 2006. Because Writing Matters. Jossey-Bass. San Francisco, CA

Woodward, P. 1996. Journal Jumpstarts. Cottonwood Press, Inc. Fort Collins, CO.

And of course: The California Reading/Language Arts Framework

Megan Day's "Writing in the Content Areas: Finding Time to Teach in a Meaningful Way"

2007-09-16T16:32:00.000-07:00

It was late Sunday night, and I was finally ready to grade the large stack of Response to Literature essays that I had been avoiding all weekend. I knew I had to finish them by the next morning, but I just could not bring myself to do it. I knew exactly how they would read. The introduction would be a ten sentence summary of the book, ending with a thesis like, “Harry Potter was brave, intelligent, and unique”. Each body paragraph would then contain evidence as to how Harry was in fact all of these things. Each sentence displaying facts would start with, “For example”, while every sentence containing an opinion would begin with, “This shows that…”. I was about to be bored to death for the duration of the evening.

My husband observed my grading and could no longer ignore the grunting and groaning. He hesitantly asked, “What is wrong?”

“Oh, they’re just awful,” I replied, tired and deflated.

“Well that’s okay, just have them change them the next time,” he concluded, and walked away. Next time…what next time? The next time my students would have another chance to write a similar essay would be in the seventh grade, a whole year from now. How would they remember my comments and suggestions, let alone, what a Response to Literature essay was?

It was then and there that I realized I needed to find a way to offer my students multiple opportunities to practice each genre of writing so that when they write the final product for English class, they will be able to expand upon the basic structure while incorporating their own style and voice. I wanted their papers to be organized, but I also wanted them to be more original and unique. My dilemma was how to find the time to do both.

Currently, I am the only writing teacher for all of the sixth grade students at my school. I switch classes with my grade level partner, and have each group for only forty-five minutes. Even though I have the students in my core class for most of the day, I feel that it would be inequitable to give them additional instruction, and I often feel the time crunch to fit all of this material into such a short block each day overwhelming, if not impossible.

Due to these time limitations, I found that I have been teaching more breadth than depth. This can be frustrating, and I am always wishing for more time to teach. Over the years, I have tried to shift the focus from the quantity of writing to the quality of the writing. However, I feel that with only one opportunity to learn each type of essay each year, the students really are not getting the practice they need to feel confident and to retain their skills.

Since this is the students’ first exposure to this type of essay, my main concern is to teach them the basic structure, and then hope they will remember it in junior high school where they will add more of their creativity and personal style to the same type of writing. However, this year I would like to try a slightly different approach.

Given that there is not any more time in my English block, I need to find a place for these writings in other subject areas like social studies, science, and literature. My goal for the summer is to look at each subject area and create several writing prompts in other content areas that will offer the students additional practice. I am certain that this additional practice will help the students feel more confident and comfortable with their writing.

Even if I offer my core class more opportunities, I still have the issue of how to be equitable with both sixth grade classes. Instead of simply fretting about this problem, I have decided to seriously study it and see if more opportunity for process writing does in fact improve the final product.

In addition to being a classroom teacher, I am also working towards my Master’s of Education at Humboldt State University, and I think that evaluating the final products of my two classes this coming year will make a fascinating comparative study and will inform my teaching with real and tested results. I will begin the school year by doing a double blind read of the students’ first formal essay in both classes. Then, after incorporating several opportunities for practice through additional prompts in the content areas for my self-contained class, I will do another double blind read of the essays to see if there is any significant statistical difference in the students’ final grades.

I expect that the students, who have had multiple occasions to practice the basic structure of the writing, will have an easier time with the final product. I hope that this familiarity will allow them to incorporate their own voice and style into their writing, because the basic structure will be familiar and well rehearsed. I also am expecting to find an improvement in their knowledge of the content areas, and I would like to compare their work in these areas as well. The idea of testing my hypothesis with my students is exciting. Not only do I think I have a great topic for my thesis, but I am optimistic that my findings will inspire more teachers to incorporate writing into the content areas in their own classrooms.

I am hoping that my time in the Redwood Writing Project will help me with some of these ideas. Creating my workshop on Writing in the Content Areas has helped me go through the process of critically looking at the big picture in my teaching to see what the students need for each type of essay. Not only does it help my students and me to look more closely at their writing, but it also brings a deeper understanding of the content, which I hope they will retain.

One way to foster depth in a content area through writing is for students to practice a skill for an essay with a topic that has been difficult for them to learn in the past. For instance, each year I struggle to teach latitude and longitude in social studies. I know that it is not the first time my students have learned about these terms, and yet they still confuse the two. Therefore, after I have given my students direct instruction in how to write a summary, and I have reviewed latitude and longitude, I would have my students write a summary explaining these concepts. Rather than write a summary about a brief news article, or simply locate coordinates on a map, this type of assignment promotes a deeper understanding of the topic while giving the students additional practice with summary writing. I anticipate that this change will make the writing process as well as the content areas more meaningful for my students, and that I will find their writing more compelling to read.

I feel fortunate to have had the time to reflect upon my teaching and I look forward to the coming year. I know that this year when I sit down to grade the stack of essays over the weekend that not only will I not be dreading it, but I will be excited to read such original and gripping work. Instead of saying, “Oh, they’re just awful,” I expect I will exclaim, “Listen to this – I can’t believe a sixth grader can write so well!”

Lauralee Green's "A Look into Writing Routines for Kindergarten and ESL"

2007-09-16T16:30:00.000-07:00

How do I create the kind of classroom routines that encourage students to write?

A few weeks into my first year teaching Kindergarten, a student approached me and asked, “Mrs. Green, why do we always have to come to your house?” I laughed to myself and told him that I did not live at the school, but that this was the classroom we use when we are together to learn. That year I had the standards and precious little else besides glue and construction paper to teach with. “So why do we go to Kindergarten everyday?” was a question I was also asking myself.

I scrambled for books to read and projects to teach science, math, and social studies. The only writing I could think to have them do was the ubiquitous journal. That first year I learned to model writing words around the room, drawing and writing stories, and I also took dictation for stories told to me. A colleague, who is a teacher consultant, shared with me about interactive writing, a technique whereby the pen is shared with students as a text is created on chart paper.

After attending the orientation for the 2007 ISI at Redwood Writing Project, I began researching about writing with young children. Since I am also an ESL teacher, I looked through books about writing with English Language Learners as well. Armed with research to inform my practice, I have clear direction how to proceed with both groups of children.

Like the students in my Kindergarten class, newcomers “often rely on drawing, moving to more elaborate drawings with labels and then to composing original pieces of writing.” (Samway 2007 pg. 58) Authentic writing and reflective writing is encouraged for all students. Silvia Ashton Warner used the Language Experience Approach (LEA) to teach reading with language minority students. It is also beneficial for young writers.

In the LEA, students dictate a text, which the teacher records on paper for the class. “The dictated text then becomes the reading material for multiple readings and for skills teaching.” (Samway 2007, 1999. Pg.184) In Write Now! pg.68 by Tunks & Giles, Morrow quotes: “The premise of LEA is that: what I think is important; what I think I can say; what I say can be written down by me or others; what is written down can be read by me and others.”

Through my research, I have found that writing needs to occur everyday; children already come to school knowing that they can write, and as their teacher I need to analyze their areas of interest so I can guide them as they choose their own topics to write about. My job as a teacher is not to criticize by pointing out errors, but to teach the process of drafting, revising, editing, and publishing, and let the child take charge over what is written down.

With my Kindergarten class I will continue my current routine and add portfolios for assessment. As I make writing an integral part of the day and have students select their own topics and keep their drafts in writing folders, they will know that when students come to “my house”- we will write!

References:

Graves, Donald H. 1990. Discover Your Own Literacy. Portsmouth,N.H.: Heineman.

Graves, Donald. 1983. Writing: Teachers and Children at Work. Portsmouth, N.H. :Heinemann.

Samway, Katharine Davies. 2006. When English Language Learners Write. Portsmouth, N.H. :Heinemann.

Samway, Katharine Davies and Denise McKeon. 2007, 1999. Myths and Realities, Best Practices for English Language Learners. Portsmouth, N.H. :Heinemann.

Tunks, Karyn Wellhousen and Rebecca McMahon Giles. 2007. Write Now! Portsmouth, N.H. :Heinemann.

Donna Doherty

2007-09-16T16:29:00.000-07:00

“It’s likely that through out history, most people have never been particularly well educated, and the world has gotten by somehow. Independent thinking is a category that almost by definition applies to a small number of people, because the majority of people tend to think alike. . . The average person is as smart as he or she needs to be. And if we get in some terrible mess, then people are going to wake up and try to figure out what needs to be done.” (author William T. Vollman, interview reprinted in Utne, May-June ’07)

After reading those words, I had to stop and think--really question--whether I thought this perspective was true. Part of me saw that this view of modern people was practical and had definite merit. I could see some of my students agreeing with the idea that they were smart enough for what life was likely to bring their way. But a bigger part of me protested against the notion that most people didn’t need to think independently, or that the masses would “wake up” when it became necessary.

In my years of work with high school students, I’ve seen so many minds that were asleep, lulled by boredom, repetition and small, narrow thought. As Albert Einstein said, “It is a miracle that curiosity survives formal education.” Both internal and external pressures push teachers to focus on the mundane, practical and testable aspects of learning. At the high school level, we rarely hear about teaching kids to be informed citizens any more; instead, we are training them to get good jobs that will pay well.

Sometimes I feel as if I am waging a covert operation against societal mediocrity in thought. Between our culture’s past and our political present, there appears to be an underlying fear of knowledge and independent ideas. Science continues to be pitted against religious orthodoxy, and political or social dissent is viewed as subversive. To remain half asleep, lulled by new gadgets and constant, content-less entertainment, is so easy. National news has morphed into infotainment, with breaking stories simplified down to sound bites. Where is empathy to be developed when tragedy and triumph are delivered with the same half-smiling monotone? How will we learn to draw our own conclusions when reasons are irrelevant and outcomes prejudged? The timeless words of Socrates whisper to our society, “Beware the barrenness of a busy life” . . . “The unexamined life is not worth living.”

In ancient Athens, Socrates was convicted of “corrupting the youth.” Fortunately for me, my modern teenagers have an instinctive tendency to be drawn to what seems subversive. Both my Sophomore and Junior/Senior groups ate up anything I gave them on Philosophy, especially the old Greeks. I’ve seen what transformations take place when those minds wake up. As an English teacher, I rely on reading and writing as my primary tools to awaken sleeping minds and open doors to intellectual discovery and discourse. Students in my Global Mythology class almost unanimously rated our comparative world religions unit as the most relevant and powerful learning. They were allowed to examine their own prior experiences and biases, look at religions from the perspective of those who practice them, consider religions’ impact on history, and directly relate what they were learning to current events in world news. Many of these young people exchanged assumptions for open-minded inquiry. Especially when coupled with discussion and art, reading and writing can lead to expansion of understanding and vision. It appears that when minds wake up, they are hungry!

The most powerful and significant writing that my students produced this last year was inspired by the most demanding intellectual areas of inquiry. After reading All Quiet on the Western Front, Night, and Lord of the Flies, I presented my tenth graders with an “impossible” essay assignment: define human nature and analyze how it plays out in historical events, current news, and personal experience. I explained that many of them might find themselves more confused about human nature when they were done than when they started. Together we built up banks of resources, perspectives, small chunks of writing, structure options. Then each individual struggled to sort through, add to and pull all the pieces together. The whole huge process was so exciting and significant because not only my honors-bound Sophomores, but also the “regulars” were able to tackle a multi-faceted inquiry and write successful essays expressing their insights, discoveries and opinions. They truly impressed themselves. My students demonstrated that demanding expectations, carefully scaffolded, yield powerful results. As two ancient Chinese philosophers expressed, “The object of the superior man is truth” (Confucius) and “He who attends to his greater self becomes a great man, and he who attends to his smaller self becomes a small man.” (Mencius) How can narrow, practical expectations lead to great writing?

I believe I am honor-bound as a teacher to facilitate and entice all my students to go on the path to intellectual awakening. I believe that we are already “in some terrible mess” but not enough people are awake yet. The real challenges facing our emerging adults will require advanced abilities in critical thinking, dissent, creative problem solving, vision, expressing shared ideas, collaboration, and even hope. I agree with these words of Confucius: “He who learns but does not think is lost! He who thinks but does not learn is in great danger.” The practical will always be with us, but the intellectual will thrive only if we actively encourage and facilitate it.

Kerry Griffith's "Professional Development Is the Key to School Improvement"

2006-05-30T15:14:00.000-07:00

Professional development is the key to school improvement. By improving the quality of teaching through focused, systematic, and sustained professional development, principals and teachers can bring about school improvement. Continuous student learning is dependent on continuous adult learning. Teachers need to be highly educated to be effective in the classroom. This education of teachers should be an ongoing process. Meaningful staff development has some very important components which must have goals with a clear purpose.

A main goal is to educate principals to take the leadership role and become advocates for staff development. Principals are the most important actors on the stage of a school system. Professional development should not be one of the things that management does, it is management. The principals must undergo professional development themselves so they can learn to guide their schools toward needed improvements. They are the most important factor because the principals must focus the school and lead the way. Principals must provide instructional leadership for teachers so teachers can grow professionally and learn how to improve their own teaching methods.

Principals need to establish a school culture that supports professional staff development. Parents, students, teachers, and school support staff need to work together for the common goals of the school. Professional development for all employees is a goal in itself.

It is important for principals to become educated in the best instructional methods that show proven results and then focus on these for their own staff development. Many principals have no idea what is being taught in their own classrooms or what teaching methods are being used. Principals need to know what is being taught and the best methods for teaching it. They need to be on the look out for new methods that show results. Principals must investigate teaching methods as an ongoing assignment. They should know what gives the best results and what needs to be changed in their own school.

Schools need to hold principals accountable for their leadership. The principal sets the stage and must continuously be educated in the best methods of leadership. Principals should be required to undergo a yearly evaluation by the teachers, parents, and school board to see if his/her performance meets their goals. (use evaluation form)

Setting aside professional development days for principals is another important factor. Principals are responsible for providing excellent leadership, and for educating themselves about the most successful teaching methods. Allowing principals time to investigate proven methods and to gain the leadership skills they need to successfully lead their staff, is of prime importance. Leaders must be informed and focused!

Once principals have gained good leadership skills, they share their leadership with teachers trained to lead. Teacher leaders can help facilitate the training of other teachers. Principals delegate leadership roles to those trained teachers who can lead and educate other staff members.

Another key component is principal networking. Principals establish study groups with other principals where they consider problems and work toward solutions. They share their methods with each other and discuss what works for them or what they need help with. Principals schedule regular visits with networking schools to view first hand the teaching practices and school programs that work.

School boards must adopt professional development policies that target upgrading the leadership capabilities of principals and teachers. These policies are written into the school plan to ensure that professional development really does happen and is ongoing.

Another important goal is to educate teachers about teaching. Teachers need to have a broad repertoire of ways to teach children the things they need to know. This involves an ongoing investigation to discover strategies that work and the ways to implement them. Teachers, with principals as advocates, investigate proven programs and network with other teachers to find successful methods of teaching. Peer coaching is another very important and worthwhile strategy that allows teachers to work together to help each other improve their teaching practices.

Whole staff inservicing is another necessary component. When schools choose a focus for example, reading improvement, it is quite beneficial to inservice the whole teaching staff on staff development days. This allows everyone to work together, to focus on common goals.

Authentic assessment is an integral part of all of this. Teachers continually assess and reassess in order to determine the school's needs and discover what works and what doesn't work. These assessments provide the data that is used by the teachers to find ways to drive their instruction. In other words, assessment lets teachers know what they need to teach and what they might need to reteach.

Professional development is expensive. Enlisting the school board's help and support is highly recommended. Funding for professional development must be written right into the school plan. Schools decide what percentage of their budget needs to be earmarked for their professional development and then write it into the school plan.

Parents, as a support group, are an important factor. As advocates, parents can help create the school atmosphere where everyone works together for common goals. To build parent support, parents are educated by the district about the chosen methods of improvement. Parents are allowed involvement in the process of setting district goals.

Districts seriously considering establishing goals for professional development can take the Professional Development IQ Test. This allows them to analyze the attitudes and needs of their district.

Schools may want to use the National Staff Development Council Standards as a guide. These standards are useful in the initial planning stages. Once a school has taken this IQ test, it can determine what its professional development needs are.

* * * * *

Studies of effective urban schools (Mendez-Morse, 1992) found that a key factor in the success of schools is the presence of a skilled principal who creates the sense of a shared mission about improving teaching and learning, and delegates authority to educators who can get the job done. Research further shows that schools that have raised student achievement in spite of students' socioeconomic backgrounds do so with the guidance of an effective leader (Keller, 1998). In a study of elementary school leadership in Chicago, Penny Sebring and Anthony Byrk (2000) found three common elements among principals of productive schools: leadership style, leadership strategies, and the issues on which principals focus. A skilled principal, the result of professional development, is truly the key to school improvement. Administrators need to have an understanding of what can be improved and the skill to get it done. "Principals must make their own instructional knowledge a priority, identify what they need to learn, and seek their own development."

Debbie Backus
Principal of Montview
Elementary School in Aurora,
Colorado and a 1998
USDOE Model Professional
Development Program
Award Recipient.

Anthony Alvarado, former superintendent of New York City's District 2, and a successful reformer of NYC schools, who is now deputy chancellor of instruction of San Diego Unified District, in his efforts to improve student achievement, focused heavily on teacher and administrator professional development. This has been noted in a recent report by the National Staff Development Council. The report further states that Alvarado proposed study groups for principals to consider problems and figure out what to do about them. Principals network with other principals who serve as "critical friends." "One thing we need is massive inter-visitation to go places, to see practice that is actually the kind of practice that we want to implement."

Anthony Alvarado,
San Diego, Calif. Unified
School District

Improving the quality of America's school leaders is the most feasible way to bring significant change to our schools. Administrators must learn to develop the capacities of their schools. They must light the way to improvement. Teachers must do their part also. They can become leaders, peer coaches, and mentors. Teachers and principals should be viewed as collaborators and facilitators who work together as a team. Established goals need the support of the school board and the parents who must become educated about the need for professional development and become advocates for it. A school culture must be developed where administrators, teachers, parents, board members, and students share the same vision and goals.

The main goal of the NSDC is: "All teachers in all schools will experience high quality professional learning as part of their daily work by 2007." Professional development is actually the key to school improvement. Principals trained to lead can lead highly educated teachers in the use of the best teaching practices to better educate our students.

Professional Development IQ Test

The 2003 August/September issue of Tools for Schools offers more information about this test and suggestions for how to use the questions with groups.

1. According to the public, what is the most important characteristic for teachers to possess?

a. Ability to communicate with parents
b. Thoroughly educated in subject area
c. Understanding how people learn
d. Well-trained and knowledgeable about how to teach effectively

2. Which strategy does the public believe has the greatest potential for improving schools?

a. Reducing class size
b. Recruiting and retaining better teachers
c. Requiring standardized tests for promotion
d. Giving greater control to the local level

3. What percentage of the public supports school-financed professional development opportunities as a means of attracting and retaining public school teachers?

a. 90%
b. 85%
c. 70%
d. 55%

4. According to research, what school investment yields the greatest increase in student achievement?

a. Lowering class size
b. Increasing teacher salaries
c. Increasing teacher experience
d. Increasing teacher education

5. According to the National Credibility Index, which of the following people is the most believable when speaking out on public issues?

a. Member of the Armed Forces
b. Teacher
c. Community activist
d. National expert

6. According to research by Ron Ferguson, which factor constitutes 44% of the impact on student learning?

a. Class size
b. Qualifications of teacher
c. Family involvement and support
d. Socio-economic status of family

7. What percentage of the public believes we should increase funding for programs to keep teachers up to date?

a. 35%
b. 50%
c. 66%
d. 70%

8. What percentage of teachers believe that professional development programs "generally waste their time?"

a. 10.5%
b. 27.4%
c. 41.7%
d. 64.7%

9. Which of the following strategies did superintendents and principals identify as the most effective for improving teacher quality?

a. Reducing class size
b. Increasing teacher salaries
c. Increasing professional development opportunities for teachers
d. Requiring secondary level teachers to major in the subjects they are teaching

10. According to the September 2000 Gallup Poll, what percentage of the public feels that the strategy with the most promise for improving achievement is ensuring that there is a qualified and competent teacher in every classroom?

a. 10%
b. 17%
c. 39%
d. 52%

11. Of the following, which aspect of teaching is most important to students?

a. Caring about students
b. Believing all children can learn
c. Knowing the subject areas
d. Maintaining discipline in the classroom

12. According to teachers, what is the number one reason for professional growth?

a. To improve student achievement
b. To improve teaching skills
c. To network
d. To advance one's career

13. What percentage of teachers believe weekly scheduled collaboration with other teachers improves their classroom teaching?

a. 62%
b. 72%
c. 82%
d. 92%

14. What do principals believe is the most important role of a principal?

a. Maintaining discipline and safety
b. Creating a supportive environment for teaching and learning
c. Supporting parents' involvement in their children's education
d. Managing the school's budget and obtaining additional funds

15. Which strategy do principals believe is most effective for recruiting and retaining teachers?

a. Providing financial incentives
b. Providing mentoring and on-going support for new teachers
c. Involving teachers in the creation of policies that they will be implementing
d. Providing career growth opportunities

16. Which professional development activity do most teachers feel improves their teaching?

a. New methods of teaching
b. Integration of education technology in their grade or subject
c. In-depth study in the subject area of their main teaching assignment
d. Student performance assessment

17. Which of the following professional development activities did the most teachers participate in during the last 12 months?

a. Regularly scheduled collaboration with other teachers
b. Networking with teachers outside their school
c. Individual or collaborative research
d. Common planning period for team teachers

18. What percentage of public school teachers believe that being mentored formally by another teacher at least once a week improves their classroom teaching moderately or better?

a. 58%
b. 68%
c. 78%
d. 88%

19. According to the 2001 National Board of Certified Teachers Leadership Survey, what percentage agree that they are satisfied with the quantity and quality of on-going professional development opportunities in their schools?

a. 70%
b. 60%
c. 50%
d. 40%

20. According to the Educational Testing Service's 2000 Report, How Teaching Matters, all of the following increase student outcomes in science except:

a. Major/minor in science/science education
b. Professional development in laboratory skills
c. Professional development in classroom management
d. Using frequent tests
e. Hands-on learning

Bibliography
NSDS RESEARCH AND INFORMATION ON STAFF DEVELOPMENT WEB SITE 2005 - 2006
NSDS ARTICLES AND STANDARDS WEB SITE 2006
NSDS IQ TEST WEB SITE 2006

Sandra Lunt Hill's "Updating My Professional Portfolio"

2006-05-30T15:06:00.000-07:00

From an elementary teacher in a multi-grade classroom to a teacher of high school students (in grades 9-12) at a highly regarded charter school, Northcoast Preparatory and Performing Arts Academy (NPA), my career in the past five years has gone through significant change. However, as my professional portfolio shows, the face behind the curriculum has not changed drastically (even if there are just a few extra wrinkles of wisdom on it). I am still a teacher dedicated to lifelong learning—my own as well as my students. What I have gained in the way of professional growth has come through a variety of experiences, ranging from my work with professional organizations to my involvement with my school’s international exchange program. This introduction to my portfolio explains how I utilize a teaching philosophy focused on learning from different perspectives to create a dynamic environment for my students.

The Face Behind The Curriculum

My professional strengths come from my love of creative teaching and my willingness to incorporate effective methods. From history we know that one reason for its prosperity at its ascendancy was the Roman Empire’s adoption of ideas from other civilizations. They looked around, saw what worked, and then used the new technologies and practices to build a successful system. Theories about the positive potential of globalization are also based on integrating best practices. Comparatively, good teachers thrive on collaboration with other teachers.

My involvement with professional groups, such as the Redwood Writing Project and Reading Institutes for Academic Preparation (RIAP), has given me access to innovative teaching approaches; but even more important to my professional growth was the opportunity to learn from the experiences of teachers who successfully used these methods. Regular meetings with other professionals found me benefiting as both recipient and contributor in a wealthy exchange of ideas.

Networking also plays a key role in my life as a member of NPA’s school community. With the recent implementation of a new curriculum, the International Baccalaureate Diploma Program, we (the faculty and administration at NPA) have found it especially necessary to communicate regularly with parents and students about academic goals. As we have discovered, it is important to have the support of parents and students when creating meaningful educational experiences within the context of an academically-challenging program.

As an IB teacher I routinely utilize my counseling and coaching skills. When in the thick of it, as students and parents vocalized their struggles with the demands of the program, we found it helpful to dialogue frequently about educational philosophy and the purpose of the curriculum. In one particularly memorable conversation, a parent and I coined the term extreme academics when resolving an issue concerning her student’s heavy-duty homework schedule. Through our new definition, the parent realized that her student actually enjoyed the thrill of pushing against previously-perceived limitations to realize the extent of her greater potential. This same student wound up receiving much academic recognition this year, which included a Questbridge scholarship that will fund her undergraduate work at a prestigious four-year college.

Best Practices

Through my work with RIAP and the Redwood Writing Project I also found techniques that helped students stay motivated in the classroom. Employing active-learning methods that encouraged student inquiry helped debunk the myth that pushing oneself academically means hours of tedious book work. In my freshmen world history class we adopted a new learning format based on methods I learned from my involvement in RIAP (which I modified for the particular needs of my students). I began with an outline of study for the unit at hand, which they read and developed academic questions. The journey through the unit was then steered by their interests. We also made the most of drama activities, such as staging scenes of government in process—from elections in ancient Athens to the tribal-consensus system we learned about in our studies of ancient Africa. Since students were engaged in the process, we had more time for creative expression than we would have had I been battling apathy with old-fashioned teaching methods based on the erroneous belief that students are empty vessels who need to be filled with knowledge by an expert source.

In my work at NPA I have also developed skills in the area of facilitating purposeful group discussions. In world history this happens by leading with student questions or other activities that make use of students’ prior knowledge. In my writing classes this occurs through teaching respect for individual styles and diverse perspectives. An example of the latter involves a sequence of lessons designed to help students appreciate works of other writers. I begin with their work (another way of incorporating prior knowledge) through writing-workshop activities that promote skills in constructive evaluation. As they critique their own writing and work by their peers, they learn key concepts, such as purpose, intent and audience—that any writer must be aware of when producing polished compositions. Later, I bring in pieces from writers outside our classroom (from classical authors to journalists) to encourage discussions on different styles. Exposure to a variety of literature from different genres is critical to the development of student writers. They benefit greatly from the realizations they gain of the many possible directions they can explore through their own work and develop a better understanding of literature in general through an appreciation of the various roads taken by other writers.

Further Expansion of Ideas

Utilizing community volunteers further widens the knowledge base of my classroom. Even though we learn a great deal from each other, my students and I still have room for many other points-of-view. The more I collaborate with other people in my teaching practice the more I realize how much can be added to the mix, resulting in creating an even more fertile soil for our educational ground. The writers, professors and other professionals who have come to our classroom with their experience and scholarship add important dimensions of understanding to the subject at hand. My portfolio features samples of student work that provide evidence of how students benefit from such interactions with accomplished individuals from the local community.

International Experience: Expanding Far Beyond the Redwood Curtain

Even before NPA adopted the IB program, the school was known for its emphasis on international involvement through exchange programs. This year I involved myself with our international program by helping to facilitate an exchange with a school in Rennes, France. My travel with students for a three-week stay at our sister-school in Rennes furthered my awareness of important educational opportunities that can be achieved through first-hand experience with different cultures. I also had the opportunity to see how my students cope with new and exciting challenges as they became world travelers. I enjoyed getting to know my students better as individuals after spending numerous hours with them in a number of settings. In my portfolio a pictorial representation of our adventures—from our treks through the streets of Paris to historical tours of medieval towns in Brittany—tells the story of what we learned together from new encounters. It emphasizes the connectedness we gained by participating in an exchange involving staying with families and becoming familiar with the lives of people who previously would have been described as foreign.
Therefore, through my direct involvement, I found out why international programs are crucial to authentic education. The entire process caused my students to broaden their views of a different culture beyond the abstract or superficial levels in order to develop a genuine understanding of what it means to be a human being anywhere in the world.

My recent professional development in some ways reflects the lessons I learned from participating in the international exchange program. Through collaboration with people in my school community, professional peers, people from both the local community and distant environments, I have traveled well beyond the scope of my former perspective and become more involved in a larger arena of intellectual opportunities. As I continue on, guided by my own investigations and the queries posed by my students, I realize that being an educated person is not about reaching a certain plateau of expertise but is an ongoing movement directed by a desire to be an active, conscious member of the vast human landscape of a global society.

Robyn Roberson's Teaching Portfolio Cover Letter

2006-05-30T15:05:00.000-07:00

July 1, 2006

To Whom It May Concern:

Please consider my enclosed curriculum vitae, this letter and my professional teaching portfolio in application for the position of English teacher. I have completed all requirements for the position by obtaining my MATW degree in English at Humboldt State University, with a minor in American Indian Education. I have taught college English for the past two years, as well as an online American Indian Education class. I have a Multiple Subject credential and have completed all coursework and applied for my Single Subject credential in February 2006. I am awaiting test results for my CLAD certificate.

After successfully instructing middle school in Napa and Vallejo, where I enjoyed teaching Ancient History, English, Yearbook, and a SDAI class for English Language Learners, I decided to return to school to obtain a master’s degree in English in order to improve my teaching expertise. Just from my teaching experience alone, I have gained considerable experience teaching a diverse student population. For the past two years I have taught composition at Humboldt State University and College of the Redwoods, both the Eureka campus and the Hoopa Valley Reservation campus.

I also taught an online class entitled “Native Americans in Higher Education” where I facilitated and assessed students. I enjoyed this student-teacher communication very much and am comfortable using technology in the classroom. I also used Blackboard as a supplement to my teaching in English.

I have included several lesson plans and samples of student work in order for you to view the variety of ways in which I engage my students in writing. As you can see, my lessons appeal to adults and young students alike, as well as to students from diverse populations.

Although I love teaching adults, I miss being in the presence of young minds eager to learn! I am applying for this position because I want to maintain contact with younger students. Having completed the Redwood Writing Project summer institute last year, I have many exciting lesson ideas for writing across the curriculum.

As you can see from my experience, I feel that I would be a positive addition to your faculty. I appreciate your consideration for this position.

Sincerely,

Robyn Roberson

Elizabeth Who's Teaching Portfolio Cover Letter

2006-05-30T15:03:00.000-07:00

Dear Hiring Committee,

Welcome to my portfolio. Inside you will find evidence of my classroom teaching experience, my philosophy of education, and documentation of my university degrees and credentialing.

This year, I completed three professional development activities. I finished the National Writing Project’s Summer Institute, I presented a small group workshop on writing for a staff development activity, and I educated myself about teaching English Learners while preparing to pass the CTEL exam.

Table of Contents

Cover: My co-teacher and Me with First Grade Class 2003-04

Use of Technology Statement

Professional Clear Mulitple Subjects Credential (exp. July, 2008)

California HOUSSE Certification

CTEL Certification

M.A. Education from University of Colorado, Boulder, CO

B.A. American Studies from Stanford University, Stanford, CA

My Philosophy of Education

Artifacts from a 4^th-Grade Unit on Humboldt County History

A Newsletter Written by my 4^th-Grade Class 2000-2001

Photos: (clockwise from upper left)

In the Garden With a Student
First Graders Writing in Their Nature Journals
First Graders Studying Counting by Ones
Me as Compost Woman (see banana peels on helmet)

Program from Our Class Play – First Grade, January, 2005

Thank You Note from the Staff

Robyn Roberson's "In the Pursuit of Adventure"

2005-09-01T15:01:00.000-07:00

After five hours sailing north through a relatively calm Puget Sound, Mark and I realized that Clancy knew absolutely nothing about sailing a 42’ Catalina Sloop. We already knew his wife, Alice, knew nothing about sailing. In fact, she had been downing Dramamine since morning, promising us she would not get seasick. Clancy wasn’t completely ignorant. He did know port and starboard, how to start the engine, and how to back Lenore out of her slip. He was a smooth-talker, however, being a retired Army Sergeant. He was a marvelous manipulator. He convinced us of his sailing prowess through stories about his week-long journey to Hawaii with a couple of his buddies. He failed to mention he was mainly a passenger and only steered upon occasion. Once this realization sunk in, I knew fear, yet continued to welcome the unknown because I knew that my boyfriend Mark, the only sailor among the four of us, would somehow deliver us to Resurrection Bay alive.

And suddenly, here was our first challenge. We were two hours from Port Townsend, Washington with nightfall quickly approaching on the first night of our journey to Alaska. Lenore didn’t even have radar. But she carried four survival suits and one survival raft. A Loran was our only guide, plus a compass and nautical charts for the Seattle-Alaska inside passage. Mark remained calm, and although he had to answer to Clancy, he was able to safely bring us into port because he had moored there several times and new the bay and its tides. Luckily, the dock was well lit.

Port Townsend was the last of the big towns we would see on our entire trip. Our provision and gasoline stops centered around tiny outposts and Indian villages along the Georgia, Queen Charlotte, and Hecate Straits before we would arrive in Ketchikan, two weeks later. That night the four of us celebrated the Catalina’s virgin end-of-May voyage with a celebratory dinner of Quilcene oysters on the half-shell, prawns, scallops, and fresh Halibut, washed down with Red Hook beers for Mark and me and virgin Daquiris for Clancy and Alice. They were Mormon and did not drink alcohol or smoke tobacco, though thankfully they drank caffeine. During dinner, Alice brought out photos of their five grown children, living in various places throughout the western United States. She was proud of their accomplishments. Clancy, having retired from the Army five years earlier, explained he was living out his dream of buying a sailboat and being able to travel and live-aboard. He had grown up in Michigan and spent a fair amount of his childhood sailing on the Great Lakes. Alice grew up in southern Minnesota and was mostly used to seeing flat, farmland. But she was game for trying the sailing life. Both Clancy and Alice were in their mid-fifties, greying and growing wider with the years. The main difference was in their demeanor. While Alice was soft spoken, Clancy was the opposite, boorish and loud.

After dinner, our two providers drifted off to bed while Mark and I had a few more drinks and several cigarettes, savoring them while knowing they would be our last until we docked again. We discussed our two crewmates and questioned the intelligence of our agreement to become crewmembers. After all, we weren’t being paid or guaranteed any work upon arriving in Seward. Mark then reminded me that I didn’t hang up their “Want Ads” even though I said I had. Since I was young I had always wanted to go to Alaska and this was the perfect opportunity, which I couldn’t pass up, even though Mark was scheduled to work all summer, so I cleverly plotted a way for us to be the crewmembers. Clancy and Alice were confused at having received no calls from potential crewmates after their ad had been posted for two weeks and became a little panicked about not being able to get home. I suggested that we go and the deal was made. Mark observed that I wanted this trip, so why worry? He then cavalierly remarked we would make it to Alaska alive and able to sail any vessel back to Seattle if no cannery work was available. I believed he would get us there safely, how could I not? The rest of the summer would be taken day by day.

Much of our journey was spent motoring through the inside passage because we were often surrounded by towering, rocky mountains and very little wind from the ocean reached us. And when the wind did show up, it was often a head wind, which did us no good because the straits were often narrow and we didn’t have much room to tack. When I wasn’t on watch or steering, I often sat on the bow, salty air and my notebook as companions. Reading and writing were my only solitary times. After only a few days, a 42’ boat shrinks to the size of a bathtub. There wasn’t much privacy except in the head.

The brief moments of solitude, however, were just what I needed. Hawks, Osprey, and Ravens continually soared overhead. A myriad of gulls - Arctic Terns, Kittiwakes and Murres - competed for food. Many times I was privileged to see Bald Eagles hunting the seas and forests. After the first week, I was able to point out various species of trees by name - Pacific Yew, Silver Fir, Cedar, and White Spruce. Dolphins often surfed the wake sifting off Lenore’s bow, escorting us towards summer. The days continued to grow longer.

Sometimes Alice would join me on the bow. She often spoke about her children. Occasionally she would mention how important this trip was to her and Clancy. She felt it would bring them closer. I enjoyed our conversations together. But mainly we would marvel at the scenery. The pristine rain forests were neither harvested nor burned, and the beautifully varied coastline displayed secluded beaches and protected anchorages, where we often moored for the night. Unfortunately, we didn’t have a dinghy, so lounging on the sandy beaches was out of the question. We were stranded upon the water, twenty-four hours a day, which wasn’t a problem until we picked up provisions at a village. Our sea legs barely turned into land legs once we stopped at port. While shopping in the trading posts, we constantly felt as though we were still on the water, our inner ears making our heads feel like they were bobbing up and down with the waves. Locals were grounded while we swayed back and forth.

The most memorable trading post stop came in the form of Alert Bay on Campbell Island, B.C. We were in the land of the Haida. Thunderbird, Moon Wolf, and Sea Grizzly Bear guardian spirits greeted us on the outskirt of town. The faded multi-colored totem poles towered over Lenore’s mast, which was itself an impressive thirty-nine feet. We lucked out with a sunny sixty degree day. A gang of five Indian boys and girls greeted us as we landed at the gasoline shack. They waved then ran up the gravel lane toward the trading post. After gassing up, Mark and I decided to explore, while Clancy and Alice argued over what groceries to buy - which brand of canned beans, white or wheat bread, bologna or tuna fish, Cheez Whiz or Kraft slices, apples or fruit cocktail? Bummer, no greens. A few of the cedar plank houses sported a run-down vehicle of sorts, and a few houses had motorcycles or dirt bikes. But there wasn’t much point since the tiny village was on a tiny island, about twenty miles in diameter - where did they ride to? But nearly every yard had a boat of some sort - be it canoe, dinghy, fishing boat. Fishing was their main source of living. Too soon it was time to board our vessel and head north, forever north.

By the time it was mid-June, the days were definitely longer, yet wetter. We hit a four-day streak of long, grey, drizzly nine-hour days of shivering and motoring. Where was the damned wind? We were all gloomy and cold. I was sick of the greasy potatoes and eggs and would have killed for a huge green salad with all the trimmings. I’d kill for a long hot shower and dry, warm clothes, too. Supposedly Ketchikan was one day away.

The crooning voice of Van Morrison singing Moondance greeted us first, belting from a fisherman’s stereo, while the sun’s strong rays warmed our wilted moods. We then caught sight of Ketchikan, perched beside the water and meandering along the gently sloping hillside. After various boating duties and showers at the municipal marina, the four of us split up and moseyed on our own paths. We needed our space. After browsing in shops for a couple of hours, I ran into Mark. We agreed we were damned tired of the small berth we slept in plus the lack of privacy. It was time to spend some of our squirreled away cash on a room for the night. We marveled at the notion of a soft bed and bath, two nights in a row - what luxury!

A storm off the Gulf of Alaska kept us nested in the small fishing village of Elfin Cove for three days. It was beautiful there and I didn’t mind staying longer. But Clancy and Mark were getting on each other’s nerves, Alice was bugging Clancy, and Clancy definitely was irritating me! We were ready for the adventure to end, but the scariest part was in front of us. Apparently it took three solid days and two long nights of non-stop motoring to get across the Gulf of Alaska, just 800 short miles. If there was any hint of a storm, it would be virtual suicide to continue. Thus, our unscheduled stay in Elfin Cove. Just to reach this cove of paradise, we had to sail down Icy Strait through Glacier Bay. Yes, ice bergs were floating all around. The trip until that point was not without its perilous moments. Several times we almost crashed the boat into submerged ice, got caught in unforeseen fogbanks and crashed ashore, or didn’t anchor far enough off-shore to keep us off land once the tide receded. Pesky situations, indeed, but a storm was life or death. Winds could easily reach 50-60 knots with waves 30 feet and higher. The boat could probably survive, but we wouldn’t.

Between Clancy being antsy about returning home, Alice bedraggled and sick from the sailing, yet continually upbeat, and Mark and I desperately wishing for our freedom, we greeted the July 4th fireworks with mixed enthusiasm. Somehow, a fireworks display at midnight in full sunlight doesn’t really work. This town, population of maybe 50 people, was accessible only by boat or float plane, and had one small store and a post office. Boardwalks threaded along the wooded shore and around the protected inner harbor where fishing lodges and homesteads perched on stilts. We were trapped in a picturesque, yet utterly boring town.

Tensions continued to grow between Clancy and Alice as our trip progressed. I couldn’t understand why he was acting like such an asshole because she was genuinely sweet and attentive. Although our journey across the gulf was fairly inconsequential, their behaviors became more and more bizarre. Clancy would yell at Alice, then she would go to their berth and cry. All Mark and I could do was sit at the bow or sit down below and navigate and ignore them. Finally we arrived in Seward and everyone’s mood lifted. That evening, after Clancy and Alice unloaded Lenore and loaded their jeep we had a farewell dinner at the Crusty Pelican. They were prepared to drive home to Kenai, 40 miles east, in the morning. Mark and I were still unsure of what to expect concerning work and a place to live, and were prepared to begin camping out in the campground. Because Clancy was in such a grand mood, he offered to let us stay in the boat until we found a job, provided we not mind when he took it out for a spin with our belongings inside. No problem, we thought.

It hadn’t been more than three days until we heard a knock on the hatch door. It was Clancy, holding a picnic basket and a bottle of wine. Without any apologies or explanations, he asked us to leave the boat until 8 p.m. that night. We asked where Alice was, but he ignored the question. As we were leaving, a young woman, easily 15 years younger than Clancy, walked up to the boat and called out. He eagerly greeted her, introduced us, and ushered us away. Hmmm, that was weird. There was no question in our minds about who she was or why she was there. The next day we gathered our belongings and set up at the campground. As luck would have it, the campground owner was the same woman Clancy was having an affair with. She was as embarrassed as we were disgusted. We saw them together a few times after that, but basically we ignored them and hoped for the best for Alice. Maybe she would get the boat.

Sue McIntyre's "Nagisaw* Snapshots"

2005-09-01T15:00:00.000-07:00

“And we’re standing in the Skyroom, which looks just like it did for High School Prom,” Chrissy says, and I can easily picture the airport restaurant—the wedding showers, school dances, and class reunions celebrated there the only reason anyone in Nagisaw, Michigan, ever actually goes to the airport, so far as I know. Chrissy continues, “So then Jill Kusowski says, ‘Now that they expanded the mall and brought in Starbucks and everything, plus that good pizza place by the Quad Movies, it’s a lot better.’”

“Well, of course, that’d make everything better, wouldn’t it?” I interrupt, gripping the phone. “Who needs a bookstore or a cultural center?”

“Riiiight!” exclaims Chrissy, in the Texas-Alabama drawl she’s developed in the 20 years since graduation. “And then, get this, Mary Hirschman--you know, she married Eric Schremms?--well, she says, ‘Yeah, we thought of moving too, but it’s just such a good place to raise children.’” Hysterical laughter fills the Alabama-California phone line connecting us, as we enjoy a moment of common criticism regarding our hometown.

“Really, Sue. You shoulda come to the reunion. You would’ve been pissing. Plus, I missed you. We’d’ve had so much fun talking bout everyone.”

“I know, I know. Maybe in another five,” I say. As I settle in on the sofa for more gossip, my gaze lands on the gilt-edged ashtray resting on the end table nearby—a gift from my grandparents during my last trip home four years ago. Overlapping the city (Incorporated 1857) seal, a red, white, and blue chevron proclaims, “NAGISAW All America City.”

. . . . .

aauuuuuuunk! aauuuuuuunk! aauuuuuuunk! The alarm pulses steadily on and off, so we know it’s a tornado instead of a fire. Clutching my pencil, I feel my blood start to pound, even though Miss Kemp told us this morning that it’s just practice. “Put your pencils and books in your desks and push in your chairs,” hollers Miss Kemp calmly. When everyone is ready except for Susan Pasternak (of course), I look frantically out the window, making sure that a tornado hasn’t come just by chance. What if it’s not really practice? I wonder while searching the sky, and Kristen Wieneke must be thinking the same thing, because she starts to cry.

“It’s okay, Kristen. It’s just a practice drill,” Miss Kemp reminds us, shouting over the alarm. “Now let’s line up in the designated space.” Dutifully, we move out the door and take our places; mine is by locker 45, even though when it’s not a tornado day my locker is actually number 62. I make sure that Matt Lumbreras is right in front of me and Renee Micelli is right behind me, because we have to keep track of our buddies. Miss Kemp says something I can’t hear because the alarm is shrieking in my head, but then she waves and everyone starts moving, so I know we’re leaving.

Once we get outside into the sudden silence, I can see the second graders and Mrs. Chambers in front of us, and without looking back I know that Mr. Fila’s fourth grade is behind us. It’s not very far from the school to the church, but when we pass by the rectory, I imagine that the wind is getting stronger, and I wonder how the eighth grade will ever get inside in time.

“Quickly, but calmly,” Sr. Corinne says, as she moves back and forth between the grades, “Quickly, but calmly.” And I am calm, seeing the gaping church doors grow closer with each step. We step into the lobby’s sudden gloom, and Mrs. Murphy reminds us that the lights are out because if it was a real tornado they might be out too. “Leaders, come and get your flashlights,” she calls, and I scurry to where she’s standing. I take the offered flashlight, shake it, flip the switch, and return to the line, where Matt Micelli is holding up his hand so I can find my space.

The eighth graders have finally made it into the crowded lobby, and just in time, because the first graders begin to cry, and the big kids need to take their place helping the little kids down the stairs so they’re not so scared. The seventh grade helps the second grade too, but this year my class doesn’t need helpers because we know how to do it and we’re not afraid of the basement anymore.

The stairs are steep and they’re dark, so I make sure to shine my light on the ground, so it lights up enough stairs and no one falls. When we all get to our spots where our grade numbers are painted on the floor, Sr. Corrine stands in the middle of the room and tells us that everyone made it down safely. “Very well done, boys and girls,” she says. “It only took us 12 minutes to find shelter.” After we all applaud, she continues, “Now I’m going to turn on the radio, just like we would if this were a real tornado, so we could hear what to do and when it is safe to go back outside. Of course,” she reminds us, “this was just a practice today, so we won’t have to wait for the all clear signal.”

As we stand in the glow of flashlights, listening to the tinny AM station broadcasting country music, I realize that it’s a good thing it was only a practice. I forgot to put my reading book in my desk, and it could have gotten blown away if there was a real tornado.

. . . . .

On the eighth grade field trip to Greenfield Village I realize that Henry Ford and the Ford cars in the pictures and assembly lines displayed in the Dearborn, Michigan, museum are the same Fords as the Ford Motor Company that Alan Tunney, Sandra Kiss, and Joel Tobias’s dads work at. I’m amazed at this glamorous connection, which I didn’t figure out during my third and fifth grade visits, and it makes me feel proud to live in Nagisaw. For the next week, I quiz the adults I know mercilessly, dedicated to discovering my own connection to fame and glory.

“No, I don’t know anyone who drove a Model T; I’m not that old,” my mom disappoints me by saying. “And Grandma Michalski has never driven a car in her life,” she adds, anticipating my next question.

Grandma McIntosh informs me that the only one in our family that has ever worked in an auto factory is my dad, but I already knew he worked there and it’s not the Ford one anyway. My Great Uncle John worked at the sugar beet plant—the one that belches black clouds that smell like burning cookies—, her dad owned a freight company, my other great uncle was a farmer, and my grandpa works at a cemetery. I already know that grandma works at an office, because I get the computer punch cards to use as flashcards for science and English words. Not as exciting as Ford Motor Company, I decide.

My Uncle Paul’s answers bring me no closer to kinship with Henry--or even his son, Edsel, the one he named a bad car after. No one in our family ever appears to have worked for Ford, and I can’t help but wonder if that’s why we don’t have a swimming pool, like Sandy does, or a camper trailer, like Alan’s family uses in the summer. Instead, I learn that Grandpa Michalski made steel at Gray Iron Foundry when he was young (not even whole cars, I am devastated to hear) and then, up until he got cancer and died when I was four, he worked for Chrysler. Uncle Caz worked for Chevy after he was a cop and before he retired. “Is that Chevy, like our Nova?” I ask, wondering if Uncle Caz made our car himself.

“Yeah, sure,” Uncle Paul says and I think I may be on to something here. “No one works at any of those places any more, though,” he adds. “They closed the plants down. Not enough work.”

“How come?”

“Well, they’re not making as many cars as they used to.”

“But everyone we know has a car,” I exclaim. “Linda Sheridan’s family even has two and you have three if you count Justifiable Homicide. And at Deerfield Village they said that hardly anyone used to have a car before Henry Ford. Don’t they need to make even more cars now?”

“Well, sure. But more people make cars now than did back then.”

“You even got the Japs coming here with those tiny cars,” Grandma interjects from the sewing machine.

“Not big, like Uncle Paul’s Cadillac,” I state proudly, because I know that Uncle Paul’s good car is important, coming out of the garage on Sundays or for bowling league nights. I remember entering the dazzling green vehicle and sitting carefully on the soft, cream-colored leather seats on the way to my sister Sarah’s First Communion last year, and I get a bit hopeful. “So is that who you work for? Cadillac?”

Unfortunately, it’s not Cadillac or Ford that Uncle Paul works for, but Nagisaw Steering Gear—the one auto parts manufacturer left in our town, he explains. I guess that I’ll have to work there, I decide. Otherwise I’ll have to leave town to work for Henry and the Fords. Or the Japs.

. . . . .

“Is Delbert McManaman your father, son?” the tall cop asks, training the flashlight on Mike’s recently earned license. Finally, I think, a question with an easy answer--not like Where’d you get the beer? How much have you had to drink? or Where are you going? (As if there is anywhere for teenagers to go in this town, I can’t help but think.) “Yes, sir,” Mike replies in his best Catholic school voice, hardly slurring at all.

The cop tells us, “Stay here,” and walks back to the patrol car where the short cop is talking on the radio. Warily, the five of us stand behind the station wagon and shift from foot to foot, sweltering in the late May heat, even though it’s 8:00 at night. Mike chews on his bottom lip. Denise and John settle on the curb. I’m not worried about any of them: Mike seems to be holding it together despite the lip thing, Denise has had practice with cops, and John has drunk only two beers since we picked him up half an hour earlier. I’m mostly worried about Chrissy, as she’s already thrown up twice since we went to Immerman Park after school. I move closer to her, nervously glancing at the cops, who are talking quietly. “You all right?” I whisper. “Not so great,” she moans, and I discreetly rub her back.

Denise and John spring up from the curb, signaling the return of the cops. I desperately concentrate on looking innocent. Denise helps the equation, I figure; she still has her St. Pete’s uniform skirt on, since we hadn’t managed to make it to her house between school, the park, and Melissa Spencer’s upcoming party. I suddenly wish I had worn my pink shirt instead of this black one, and my denim skirt feels too short. And why did Chrissy have to wear Jordache’s with that cut off shirt? Besides, what if these cops know the joke Officer Bob made when he came to the pep rally last week to talk about alcohol: “When you find four Catholics, you’ll find a fifth.” The uniform skirt might not be such an advantage after all, I think.

The tall cop turns to Mike. “Okay, son. Take the beer over to that storm drain there,” he says, pointing toward the corner. Mike stoops and picks up the case, reduced by only three cans since we snatched it from John’s father’s basement bar, hopefully unnoticed due to our practice of rotating our pilfering between the many well-stocked “adult” provisions available in our middle class, Midwest homes. Setting the Schlitz (beggars can’t be choosers) on the ground, Mike turns obediently to the cops. “Dump it out,” Short Cop says, gesturing to all of us. We glance at Tall Cop cautiously, hesitating over the case. “Go on,” he urges. “We ain’t got all night.” Denise, John, Mike, and I obediently reach into the case, grab a sweat-slicked can and crack it open. I try and make it look awkward, like I’m not used to doing it. Chrissy wobbles slightly behind us. John and I block her from view, taking up as much space at the drain as possible, making it look like a four-person-only job. Four more “psst” and pours each, and the silence booms. The entire time all I can think about is whether anyone driving by on Gratiot knows us and how pissed my mom is going to be, considering the fact that I just got ungrounded Sunday.

An endless moment later, and the empty cans are sitting in a heap by the side of the drain. “Pick em up and throw em over there,” Hostile Cop says, wiping his brow and pointing to the dumpster on the side of the building. “I’ve got it,” I say hurriedly, and Denise takes over my job blocking Chrissy. I drop only one can, quickly pick it up, and return to the drain to receive our judgment.

“You kids are clearly up to no good,” begins Short Bad Cop. “I personally think we should take ya in, let yer parents sort it out.” When he pauses, I recognize that, despite everything, my mom hasn’t had to come to the police station for me yet.

“However...,” says Good Cop, and I can breath again. “We’re gonna let you off this time. It’s early and you seem like good kids.” None of us respond, not wanting to jeopardize the decision. During the rest of the lecture, over the faint droning of oft-heard “responsibility” “opportunity” and “future,” I yearn to be in the car. Sensing the end of the lesson, I turn my eyes dutifully to the cops, nod, say “Yes, sir.”

“Wait, son,” Good Cop says to Mike as his partner returns to the cop car. Seeing an escape opportunity, the rest of us race slowly to the station wagon, swarming around Chrissy, John practically lifting her into the back seat. I look out the back window at Mike, who nods somberly as Good Cop talks to him. When Mike finally joins us, John asks, “What’d he say?” “Ah, just some shit about my dad and him being partners before,” Mike says, shrugging.

. . . . .

“Don’t be such a Jew,” Russ told Denise when she was double-checking the math on the bar tab. “I’m not his Nigger,” Brian stated when explaining his refusal to help his dad with some chores earlier that day. Lying in bed in the harsh light of Christmas Eve morning, the sound track of the previous night’s festivities keeps replaying in my mind. I had eagerly anticipated the previous night’s reunion with my friends, and, indeed, we had a great time catching up on the adventures we had during our first semester at different colleges. Now, however, rather than the stories of classes and romances, these comments echo in my head.

“Come on. Time to get ready for Grandma’s,” my mom yells from the next room, and my sister and I scramble to get ready. As we pull out of the driveway and turn left instead of right, I am immediately reminded that for the first time ever, we won’t be celebrating Christmas Eve in my grandma’s old house—the house where we’d spent every holiday since I was born. In September she had sold her house, and my Uncle Paul (who had previously lived with her) bought a house for the two of them on the west side of town. There had been a lot of talk about the old neighborhood “going downhill” in recent years, which I have finally realized was a reference to the increasing number of African-American and Hispanic families buying the homes that once belonged to the European immigrants. Like my Polish grandmother, most of these early settlers are now taking part in a secondary migration—if only across the river to the relative “safety” of the West side. Indeed, few will venture back to the East side for any reason. Even my grandmother has started attending a new church, abandoning the parish she has been a part of for over 50 years, rather than reenter the community she has abandoned.

My grandma seems to be happy with the move, though. There is a shopping center in walking distance from the new home, and, while I miss the single heating unit that blew hot air into the dining room of the old house, both she and my uncle enjoy the luxury of central air and heating. Besides, I tell myself, I am now too old to play on the hopscotch pattern integrated into the turquoise and pink kitchen linoleum of the previous house.

And, even if the home is new, my family is the same as ever. Three of my five uncles and two cousins are already at the house by the time we arrive, and heated debate about the upcoming college bowl games is in full swing. They pace and swing their arms emphatically as they argue over colleges they had never attended and athletes they have never seen. The most excitement seems to be reserved for a single player on a Big 10 team, and my ears perk up, since I attend Michigan State—another school in the conference. “Sure, white guys are quarterbacks,” my Uncle Chet explains seriously, “but to have a white kid beat out one of them black boys at running back—now that’s something to be proud of.” Everyone is in agreement. “Sure thing,” Caz agrees. “They might be lazy as shit otherwise, but those boys sure do know their sports. Hard to beat ‘em.”

“Anyone want some fresh-baked bread while it’s still hot?” my mom asks from the dining room. The sound of her voice and the pointed glance in my direction help to relieve some of the pressure building in my head and heart. “They’re good men,” she whispers to me as I stand aside to wait for my own piece, avoiding the stampede of giants. I know this, and I remind myself of it throughout the rest of the festivities, planning to talk to my sister later tonight about what she heard. And I look forward to the end of winter break and my return to college.

. . . . .

After another hour of divorces, deaths, and sarcastic commentary, Chrissy has caught me up on 20 years of Nagisaw lore. “I’ll send you the memory book soon,” Chrissy promises before hanging up, “so you can see who’s bald and fat.”

Putting the phone down, I think about my hometown and the way I always knew I had to leave Nagisaw and the Midwest. It’s a place that is a part of me, yet I’m also an outsider there now. I pick up the ashtray given to me by my grandparents, absently finger the chipped edge, and read aloud to the empty room: “All America.”

*Note: The name of the city and the names of the people in this essay have been changed to protect the innocent (and not-so innocent). While the events described in this essay have been inspired by actual events and my experiences, I have taken creative license in presenting them here.

Laurie Winter's "Regretter: Lament for the Dead"

2005-09-01T14:40:00.001-07:00

The disjointed memories, threatening since we stopped for gas in Flagstaff, confront me fully as we enter Phoenix on the Black Canyon Freeway. The voice of the disc jockey I listened to in the eighties sounds from the radio, enveloping me in the nostalgic melancholy of going home again.

My dad is sick. In five days he will undergo surgery. Arriving at the home where I grew up, I can scarcely bear to look at him. He’s weak, thin, spectral. The severity of his illness is evident in his gray skin and pained eyes. I avoid looking directly at him so he won’t see my anguished face.

For the next several days my husband Mark and sons Ian and Sam remain mostly at our hotel while I fix ham sandwiches and fried eggs for Dad. I tidy up, hoping he'll eat. Being there, in that house, that neighborhood, I feel out of place and time. The smells and sounds are so familiar–the acrid asphalt exhaust of this desert city. The pungent aroma of the Palo Verde trees, and the continuous buzzing hum of the cicadas. I see my younger self everywhere: I park out front with Bruce. Melinda and I hit a ball back and forth in the street, moving when a car comes. Terri and I giggle as we head for a night out. Standing on the front porch, Doug kisses me. Those old hopes I shared with them–painting, writing, playing competitive racketball, traveling, all abandoned now.

My brother, Jeff, and I drive Dad to the hospital. We sit uneasily together, talking quietly and infrequently. We wait for the jury to return with our father’s sentence, afraid to voice what we both suspect. A nurse appears hours later. The surgery did not go as hoped; Dad will be in Intensive Care for a week. The doctors keep this news from him.

My husband and sons have soothed me, but they must return home. And even though they’ve been here with me, I’ve been alone. This is a place that has no meaning for them. The meaning is all mine. I watch them drive away, filled with utter heartbreak and loneliness. They are my home.

The doctors tell Dad the outcome of the surgery. They say he needs a respirator to breathe. He won’t be able to talk, and he’ll have a feeding tube in his stomach. Does he want this? He does. He peers at the doctor. “Am I going to die?” The doctor tells him not yet. My father’s eyes widen with fear. “I don’t want to die--I’m not ready!” I squeeze his hand, soothe his brow, seeing no peace come to his eyes. Standing there next to him, I must hide my fear for him from him.

At my parents’ home I wander through chores, rarely eating, forcing myself to talk to neighbors and callers. I stare blankly through their Christian platitudes. I take to driving alone and with no particular destination, the city sprawling with so many different kinds of people than in my childhood. I find myself at my old grade school, see my dad gently tugging my small defiant fist as we climb the steps on the first day of first grade. At my high school I watch the spot where we made him let us out, down the block in case someone might see. I drive to houses where my friends lived and he dropped me off so many times, strangers living there now, interlopers.

The nostalgia is palpable, emotionally wracking. I am an anachronism, all alone. My thoughts are relentless, almost punishing. I think of my Dad's life, then my own. I will turn 40 in a few months. Married at 23, divorced in two years, I immediately met Mark and married him a year later. At 28 I was a stay-home mom devoting my days to my sons. Perhaps I was too young, too decisive. Is it is too late to create art, to write something of import? Have I given myself away?

Dad must be moved to an acute care facility. He receives morphine and I ride with him in the ambulance. It’s stuffy and the driver cusses constantly at the traffic. As we arrive I watch the expressions of the staff who receive us. Their faces tell me they do not think my dad has long to live. Greg is in charge; his face smiles kindly, but he asks many difficult questions about the lengths to which they should go to keep my father alive. I leave feeling apprehensive.

The next day I take the stairs to the 4^th floor and see a group of four men in suits; three smile and say hello. The fourth turns and looks at me and something passes between us. I turn back as I reach Dad’s door. He’s still looking, this muscular black man. I ask myself what just happened as I enter the room. The next day, I see him again in scrubs, Eric the respiratory therapy manager. He asks if I need anything. I tell him I believe the water in the drinking fountain is poisonous. He offers me anything I want in the staff refrigerator. I like standing near him because he smells good. I think about how I never really had a close friend who was black. He reminds me of my profound absence of meaningful contact or experience with people who are different from me.

The days pass with me helping my mother and visiting Dad every day. The smiles continue from Eric, and I feel guilty. My father is sick, my husband and children are 900 miles away. Yet it feels good to be regarded as attractive by this handsome man. Nothing was obvious or overt. Nothing flagrant occurred. I was distraught; he was professional. But we knew. He knew, and I knew. We got acquainted. I both enjoyed and agonized over our friendship. I felt the need to conceal most of my chaotic emotions: I hid my fears for my dad from him. I hid my morbid fear of regret from my family and friends. Yet I hid almost nothing from Eric, this man I’d just met.

Dad experiences weeks of hopeful improvement and sudden crushing setback. Will we ever be able to remove the breathing tube? Can he have physical therapy? Will he ever go home to Jeff’s house? The staff will not commit. They take good care of him, friends visit, relatives come and go. I do my best to comfort him, but Dad wants nothing more than to leave.

Even as the unyielding sun fades on this day, my face shines with sweat as I sit on the front porch of the house where I played and kissed boys and grew up. A family next door comes out for the evening air; I hear the father speaking Spanish, recognize a few words. What is it all about, this life, past, present, future? What does it mean, turning forty, mothering, being a wife, a daughter? How do I create meaning, happiness? What do I fear? I fear leaving this life undone, "not ready."

My friendship continues with Eric, and he somehow eases the upheaval in my heart while simultaneously causing agitation by my attraction to him. I wonder about the secret of attraction and chemistry. Is it pheromones, eye contact? I have felt it before, good vibes with people I liked instantly. But this, right now? Maybe this is about aging, lost youth, the evanescence of womanliness. My ego. Perhaps attraction is the ultimate method for feeling alive, denying death. And I know that death for me is far away. But it feels so much closer now. It’s closer.

People continue to visit Dad intermittently; I tend him daily, cleaning his mouth, scrubbing his hair, turning him. I rub his shoulders and tell him what is happening outside his antiseptic world. He’s concerned about a gift for Sam’s birthday. I struggle to decipher his strange form of hand signals, whispers, and often illegible penmanship. He becomes frustrated easily, asking again and again for the time, always surprised how late it is. He asks for the date, amazed that weeks have passed.

I dwell obsessively on his life and how he spent it, knowing it is ending. He must have many disappointments; I have so many for him. He was the one who could answer any question I asked, the honors graduate of Kent State, the young lieutenant who fought in the Pacific. Yet he accomplished little more in his life. Treated with neither warmth nor love by my mother, he anesthetized himself with drink. Why did he stay all those years? Now he has days left, hours. I can't stop thinking about the meaninglessness of the days. And then it’s over, a fractured life, lacking something crucial. Regret lingers with me, but for the past or future, I cannot say.

My brother and I awake to a 6:00 a.m. phone call. Come now. Dad is sedated for pain. I rush to him, cradle his head in my hands. Our eyes lock for an instant and I know he sees me, feels me. His face moves and relaxes. I stroke his cheek and hair, hold his hand for hours. By 11:00 his blood pressure has dropped frighteningly low. The alarms on the machines sound continuously and are turned off. Jeff notes the fading heart sign and warns me with his eyes–our father’s last moment has arrived. My wet face up to his again, my eyes search his for one last connection as I tell him I love him, he was a good daddy, and it’s OK. One single tear rolls from his left eye and he is gone.

The staff had faded to the back of the room but now appear very busy. My brother moves me out of their way, hugging me as we cry together. I hear Eric say the time as people slowly begin to disconnect machines; my brother moves to help them. They all look toward me, uncomfortable. I don’t want to be in this room anymore, but I don’t know where to go or what to do now that my dad is gone. This is what I’ve done for weeks. Eric leads me out. He takes me to his office, making sure I’m all right. He hides me from outsiders, and I am so grateful. Sitting there at his desk, I think about how we inhabit this planet, take ourselves very seriously for 75 or 80 years if we're lucky, and then we die. And everything just goes on without us.

The hours disappear and a year has gone by, almost. From 900 miles away I keep my dad in my heart while his ashes rest with thousands of veterans on a lonely patch of desert.

My days fill up with laundry, basketball, soccer, my job. I think often about creating a life of greater warmth and meaning, avoiding those who would cause harm or waste my time. My brother and I have grown closer than ever, as have Mark and I, as we eliminate the superfluous; laughing seems more important, and the faces of my sons have never looked sweeter. Eric is still in my life, from a distance, bringing something to it that was not there before.

Memories of my dad stay with me and make me wonder how I will look back at these days forty years from now; will I possess the peaceful consciousness he lacked? Or will I lie in a hospital bed wishing I had lived differently, admonishing myself for a life incomplete, not ready? Still, I welcome the days, both anticipating what they may bring and cursing Time for its interminable plodding nature, all the while knowing it will leave me, eventually.

Sarah Luiz's "Siblings"

2005-09-01T14:40:00.000-07:00

I glance at my watch impatiently and transfer a load of neatly packaged boxes to my left hip. Should’ve known you’d hit the after-work rush I tell myself, eyeing the stream of people filed before me. Maybe they’re all here to buy a quick book of stamps.

“Next, Please!” I follow the line forward a step and stack my parcels at my feet with a sigh. Standing upright again, I nose in on a conversation going on between two ladies just ahead.

“So, what’s your plan for the weekend, Betsy?” They appear to be close to my own age--late twenties. I raise a mental eyebrow, hoping to hone in on juicy entertainment.

“Next!” Following the cue, the line shuffles forward. I scoot my stack with an ankle and pull up along side it, pleased with the opportunity to move closer to the chit chat.

“Heading to Florida for a family reunion,” Betsy replies to her friend. “I’ll be there a week--staying with my siblings at a beach house.” This could be good. “Dreading it,” she clarifies. Her tone suggests a roll of the eyes and I find myself disappointed in their tame topic.

“I’ve always thought growing up with siblings would be hard,” Friend offers, tossing a golden braid over her right shoulder. “I was super spoiled as an only child and never had to share my parents’ attention.”

“Trust me,” Betsy confesses casually, “I’ve wished I was an only child on many occasions.” My internal brow furrows. How sad...

“Next, Please!”

On my drive home, my thoughts return to the conversation I overheard. I’m troubled by how apathetic and seemingly sincere this Betsy was about wishing her siblings away. My mind wanders, wrapping itself around whirling images and feelings of my own siblinghood--a comforting cocoon.

How deflated my life would have been without my sister and brother. I am the middle child, born to Nancy and Michael in the mid-seventies. Bouncing, blue-eyed, beautiful Judy had been awaiting my arrival for twenty-one months. When I was barely five and my mother’s stomach grew full again, my sister and I nurtured a common desire and split a brittle wish-bone right down the middle. A month later, our brother Joseph joined us, confirming my naïve belief that wishes can come true. Whether by chance, luck, or fate, the three of us were born into the same circle and began our lives’ journeys together.

Even as a young child, I somehow understood the unique connection siblings share. An overly thoughtful girl, I would sometimes look at my brother or sister and contemplate the odd idea that, had the planets been aligned differently or Life’s cards been shuffled more, I might have been born as one of them. We had the same parents, after all--the same blood and stringy gawkiness. We were constant companions who shared a home, neighborhood friends, family trips, and every holiday. Where many of my friends engaged in knock-down-drag-out fights with their siblings, the three of us mostly got along well, with or without my parents’ reminders to “Treat others the way you want to be treated” or “Let it be."

Flipping on the radio and cracking my window, I feel the conjured memories of my siblinghood bring a nostalgic smile to my face. But it would be unrealistic to say I couldn’t relate just a little with the Betsys of the world. I’m sure my parents would be quick to remind me of the hours of screaming and teasing they refereed. We three kids loved each other, but we were kids, nonetheless. Like most youngsters with siblings, we knew exactly which buttons to push in order to send a brother or sister into uncontrollable fits of fury. We were rarely, if ever, violent with one another partially because my parents would never have allowed it and partially because it wasn’t really necessary. Because we knew each others’ worst habits, insecurities, embarrassing moments, fears, and pet peeves, we had the most potent ammo of all to utilize in cases of frustration or purely for entertainment’s sake.

Looking back, I view both the torment I endured and meted out as an opportunity to have toughened up. Had my sister never taunted me or tickled me sick, I probably wouldn’t have developed the thick skin or tolerance for discomfort that helped protect me through life. If it wasn’t for my little brother being an incessant spy, I never would have become a speedy speaker of Pig Latin, nor as a teacher, would I be able to handle my students with such patience and poise when they’re begging for a reaction. Without a doubt, I’ve also inflicted a healthy share of influences upon siblings through distasteful tactics of my own; but having my brother and sister to practice cruelty on quickly made me realize I didn’t like the person I was when my words or actions pained another.

Despite the childish teasing we doled out to one another, my brother, sister, and I shared an almost primitive sense of loyalty and protectiveness, which seems to be a common siblinghood phenomenon. One of us could spend an entire day mercilessly harassing another, but if a kid from the neighborhood even looked the wrong way at our own blood, watch out! My siblings’ protectiveness helped me to grow up feeling valued and loved. Having them to protect in turn caused me to develop into a caring, compassionate individual. My sister, brother, and I were also one another’s cheerleading team--people who believed in each other and were there to share and celebrate life’s accomplishments. Developing alongside them taught me the importance of recognizing and honoring the strengths and achievements of others in my life.

Growing up as independent beings, of course, we often had different agendas. A couple of benefits blossomed from this aspect of siblinghood. For one, having other bodies for my parents to focus upon made it a tad easier for me to pull the wool over their eyes if and when I wanted. I was a good kid, but I was also aware of this particular advantage I had over my friends without siblings, whose sometimes hawk-like parents seemed suffocating. Another benefit arose from the fact that we all had different and often conflicting desires. My experience as a sister provided me with priceless bargaining tools and an ability to compromise. Because of my siblings, I learned to share and realized early on that allowing others to do or get what they want can be as satisfying as meeting one’s own desires.

I glance over my right shoulder and change lanes in anticipation of my freeway off ramp. Again, I consider Betsy’s words. Even if she was insincere in her statements, I am sorrowed for her and others who share her stance. I am aware that there are many in the world who’ve had monstrous experiences because of their own flesh and blood and have little choice but to sift negative figures from their lives, so I feel all the more blessed to know I would never have traded my siblings for anything. Not only have I enjoyed consistent friendship and entertainment because of their presence, I’ve also received insights into my own life through them.

Since my sister was a bit older, she provided me with a sneak peak into inevitable stages of life as she opened the door into kindergarten, junior high, high school, and finally adulthood. Before actually entering those worlds myself, I’d gained invaluable knowledge of the mysteries hidden behind each door through first hand accounts. Because I got to tag along with my sister and her friends, I had access to the coolest styles, music, and sociality and was more advanced in those arenas than my friends who didn’t have older siblings. Having a connection to an older crowd made me more street smart in school and less vulnerable to the trickery of upperclassmen, too. My sister’s journey through life influenced my own path because I watched and learned from the pitfalls and windfalls she encountered as she blazed our trail to adolescence and young adulthood.

My brother has similarly impacted my life’s path. Because I am five years older than he, I assigned myself the role of his guardian upon his birth. I loved having him to dote upon and wanted to be a good role model for him right off the bat. I helped him learn how to tie his shoes, play Candyland®, and “swing dance” in the living room. As we got older, I enjoyed days when I watched him and his friends after school, helping them with spelling homework or quizzing them on multiplication facts. I delighted in watching my brother experience things for the first time and eagerly helped him learn and grow. Surely, having a younger brother contributed to my fulfilling decision to be an educator. Who knows what career choices I might have made differently had I not had the opportunity to teach and nurture others as a child?

As I exit the freeway and start up the narrow, winding road leading home, Stephen Stills’ Love the One You’re With drifts over the radio. My mind tunnels back to a place where I’m lounged with my siblings in our overstuffed station wagon on a road trip to the Grand Canyon, the profiles our parents in the foreground and all of us encircled by the grand, golden dunes of Death Valley and a stark expanse of blue sky. As the song echoes in my head, I feel a smile dance across my face again and am grateful for the warmth encased within this remembrance.

In my daily life, I often draw strength, comfort, and purpose from the emotions and images tied to my siblinghood. Having my sister and brother is simultaneously grounding and uplifting. Because our relationships were largely based upon respecting, supporting, and nurturing one another growing up, we still treat each other likewise and have a supportive circle in which to immerse ourselves. When taking life too seriously or doubting myself, I only need to pick up the phone and reach one of them to have my perspective readjusted. If a family matter arises or I simply feel like reminiscing, it’s comforting to speak with people who truly understand the context and characters. As an adult, it’s restorative to have peers in which I still see the child playfully exposed through mannerism and spirit, as it is a reminder that youth is still alive within me, as well.

Pulling to a stop in front of our house tucked among the redwoods, I breathe a satisfied sigh. I’m glad to have snooped on Betsy and her friend today. Their exchange reminded me of how important it is to step back from the unceasing distractions of life and remember the gift of siblings. Betsy and Friend unwittingly urged me to revel in the notion that, no matter the distance between us, my siblings and I share a timeless and sacred bond which has contributed to both my person and my chosen path. It’s been too long I think, letting myself in the front door. Dropping my keys, I pick up the phone and dial familiar digits.

“Hey! I’m so glad you’re there…I was just thinking of you….”

Michael Bickford's "Trimmings"

2005-09-01T14:39:00.000-07:00

When I was twelve years old I became the unwitting hypotenuse of a sixth grade love triangle. At a right angle across the spreading gap from me were the long-time love of my life Colleen Clark and her new friend Judy Bessinger. I was too blissfully involved in my own romantic fantasies to think that the subjects of my affection did not return my feelings in kind. My heart was etched with embarrassment one afternoon in a painful moment that stays with me like a kinescope hidden in a drawer of something far away but very real.

* * *

I had been in love with Colleen since kindergarten, when we launched our relationship with exquisite naked-dancing in her mother’s bathroom. Behind the button-locked door we felt for the first time in our awareness the warm ease of skin across our equally flat chests, our round little child bellies, our inner arms and thighs. The part of me that was different from Colleen remained in place, unnoticed, but our peach-fuzz stood on end as we tingled with delight.

It seems to me now that the most pleasant times of my childhood were spent playing Barbies with Colleen in her room. My mom was busy with my baby brother, and Colleen’s mother had a sick husband and two toddlers to care for. We never fought or made noise, so they left us to ourselves.

For six years there were no other girls Colleen’s age on our block. I had four or five other boys to play with, but Colleen was isolated. For her I was the next best thing to a best friend. But to me she was my future wife. We played and joked about when we’re married. I don’t think Colleen believed it would ever really happen. I just assumed it would.

As I moved on through elementary school, I played Little League and basketball and ran with the mob of boys on the block, but I continued to play with Colleen. The other kids didn’t seem to notice or care how much time we spent together, but my parents did. I always thought of her as My Girlfriend, because that was the label my mom and dad used. We were cute. Mom and Dad teased us, but they were pleased by our unusual relationship. Most kids—our brothers and sisters, other kids on the block—thought the opposite sex had cooties. But Colleen and I were comfortable together, and when we showed off, holding hands and walking arm in arm, the adults loved it. I think now that young parents in the early sixties had a lurking fear of their kids not “turning out right.” Heaven forbid that we should be fruitcakes or lezzies. This unspeakable fear was dispelled every time they saw us being the miniature couple we knew they wanted us to be. But the best part for me was with no adults around, playing house with Colleen and Ken & Barbie in Colleen’s room.

Colleen’s father died at the start of our sixth grade year, at about the same time Judy’s family moved in. Colleen and I never talked about her father—sickness and death were too scary.

Colleen latched onto Judy immediately and they began spending most of their time together—time I would have spent with Colleen. When I was with both of them at the same time, even just walking home from school, I felt like I was playing a game with rules only they understood. I was exhilarated, but confused and embarrassed, too young to see what was happening. I floated along with my feelings.

That winter Colleen and I played house a few more times, but it wasn’t the same. Colleen’s smile seemed different. It gleamed like she knew a breathtaking secret. Since that one naked morning we had never really gotten physically close. We played and talked and pretended. I was more physical wrestling and playing football with the guys than I ever was with Colleen. But each of those last few times we played in her room, she would find some pretense to have an argument with me and we would end up play-fighting on her bed. I remember she had that smile of secret knowledge all the while we “struggled.”

During that sixth grade year, as the way we played changed, my feelings about Colleen changed as well. I began to feel a need to state my intentions. I was unsure what those might be, but I knew they involved going steady, getting married, and something called sex. I started by making our relationship official. I gave her a steady-ring-on-a-chain I bought at the strip-mall jewelry store with my own stolen money. Trembling and breathless, I gave it to her one afternoon at the end of Easter vacation.

I pulled the stainless steel bauble from my pocket without preamble.

Here.

Does this mean we’re going steady?

I guess so.

Neither of us was ready to start kissing and I didn’t know what else to say, so I quickly suggested that we go outside with the other kids. Only then did it become real to me that everyone would see what had always been private. I wavered between being proud, wanting all the kids to see, and hoping she would keep her shiny new token hidden in her blouse with her training bra. But the uproar among the kids over Colleen’s steady ring, which she ended up taking off and swinging around her finger like a sling, was no more than over somebody’s really cool agate shooter. We heard a couple of choruses of “Two Little Lovebirds Sitting in a Tree,” then everything was back to normal. I played along, but I knew things had changed.

And I knew the change was inspired by the arrival of Judy Bessinger.

* * *

Judy was Colleen’s foil in many ways. While Colleen was round-faced and pink, the bangs of her bright blonde Dutch-boy cut straight above dark eyebrows and clear blue eyes, Judy’s skin was Hessian olive, her face long and lean, with lank ringlets of nut-brown hair falling about searching black eyes.

I got my first successful erections thinking of Judy.

We began to talk on the phone—something Colleen and I had never done.

Speaking into my ear through the phone as I sat curled under the breakfast bar in the dark kitchen while everyone else watched TV, Judy was not a disembodied voice. As she spoke, I could see her more clearly in my mind than I ever could when we were with Colleen or other kids—which was all the time. On the phone we had privacy. She was talking only to me with her froggy little voice, telling me about problems with the other girls, about her parents fighting, her brothers smoking and drinking. The things she told me frightened me some, but she seemed so cool and different and exciting. I would think of her long after we hung up. I would go to sleep dreaming of how it would be to make her happy, to stroke her face, to touch her lips.

I began to write her love letters.

I had never written anything to Colleen—when we began neither of us even knew how to write—but I had become literate by the time I met Judy. I spent one entire rainy afternoon with the only picture I had of Judy, in the school portrait of Mrs. Potts’ class, filling every margin with a scrawl of painful purple prose.

I had just seen the movie The Pride and the Passion for the third time that week on “The Million Dollar Movie” and I was moved. Perhaps not so oddly enough, I related to the Sofia Loren character, divided in her feelings between the long-beloved and admired Spanish revolutionary, played by Sinatra—the Pride—and the dashing Duke of Wellington, played by Cary Grant—the Passion. I wept throughout the final scene as the Duke carried the limp bodies, first of Sofia, then of Sinatra, back into their recaptured city. I was attracted to the idea of these different aspects of love. I could I be in love with two girls at the same time. Love could feel many different ways. I poured my passion out to Judy with my pen.

I never gave Judy the unedited versions of my letters. She got my thoughts and feelings, watered down to the level of a commercial Valentine, in the form of notes passed to her through the hands of other girls in class. At first it didn’t enter my mind that Colleen would read the notes. After all, she was in a different room at school and the girls who passed the notes always promised not to read them. I assumed Judy would never share them with anyone. I didn’t want to think of what Colleen’s reaction might be if she did read them. But Judy pretended she hadn’t even read my notes when we talked on the phone. It was all too embarrassing to discuss. And besides, in my twelve-year-old mind my feelings about Judy were separate from what Colleen and I were to each other—whatever that might have been.

In the midst of a pubescent hormone storm, I was oblivious.

However, as spring approached that sixth grade year, some kind of awareness grew within me. It could have come from clues I picked up when I was with Colleen and Judy together—the conspiratorial tittering, the under-current of whispers. Or I could have just been starting the long haul to catch up with the girls’ march through puberty while slowly getting wise in 1964, taking in the ways of the world by osmosis through the media. Either way or both, my reaction was to panic. Colleen will be jealous. She’ll hate me. I’m too nerdy for Judy. She’ll drop me and I’ll lose them both.

I decided I had to make a commitment to Colleen. By getting her that ring and chain, I chose Pride over Passion. Colleen and I were going steady.

* * *

Mr. Clark had been very sick for a long time. When he died I finally understood why I had only seen him occasionally in his darkened room, through a crack in the door at the end of the hall, and why Mrs. Clark was unhappy all the time. But soon after the funeral Colleen’s mother seemed happier than ever. As the days grew warm, she cut and colored her dark, curly hair to a bouncy blonde halo and she took to wearing short-shorts and halter tops. She would sun-bathe, smiling with cucumber slices on her eyes. In March, when Mrs. Clark’s Greek boyfriend, Ilia, moved in, it seemed like they had known each other for a long time.

None of us kids liked Ilia much. He treated us like the nuisances we probably were. But he was a warm breeze to the Clarks. He rough-housed with the boys and, though he kept a certain distance from her, Colleen bragged about Ilia’s worldly travels and really seemed to like him. I think she liked the way he made her mother laugh. Colleen had never known what it was like to have a happy mother.

The morning of that epiphanous afternoon I had been mowing the Clark’s lawn. A Southern California Saturday in May, the smell of green grass and blue smoke, and the drone of two-cycle engines infused the endless suburban neighborhood. Ilia had been hollering at me and calling me lazy because of a stretch of the backyard lawn that looked uncut no matter how many times I ran over it with the mower. I tried to explain that it was because the ground was uneven and there was nothing I could do. I think by the third time I mowed it Ilia knew I was right, but he made me do it anyway to show me who was boss.

Later we played in the water for the first time that season in Colleen’s backyard—Colleen and her brothers, and Judy and I, along with two neighbor boys, gliding on the slip-n-slide and lying on beach towels. Ilia broke out the barbeque and Mrs. Clark, in her brand new bikini, basked on the lawn on a chaise lounge in the sun.

I had gone into the utility room to dry off so I could go into the house and use the bathroom. Colleen stepped out through the kitchen door at the same time Judy came in behind me from the yard.

Come’ ere, I want to show you something.

Colleen took me by the arm and turned me toward the adjoining garage. Judy was right behind me as we entered the dimly lit space. The ripe odor of composting grass rose through the dusty air.

Do you know what pussy is?

Judy’s voice held back a squeal as she spoke. I looked in panic from face to face, both smiling maliciously, eyes darting back and forth from each other to me.

Sure I do.

My mind scrabbled to make sense of what they were doing. I vaguely knew about sex and reproduction from children’s apocrypha as well as from the official sex-ed film I’d watched with my mom and dad—and twenty others—just three months ago. I knew that a pussy was the same as a vagina, but I had never even said the word vagina out loud and was sure I didn’t know how to pronounce it. And I had no idea what Judy meant by the word without the article.

It’s your… thing…where you pee.

The girls were not yet old enough for bikinis themselves. They wore girly-modest swimsuits with skirty frills around their burgeoning hips, but their legs and arms glistened in the angled light from the utility room so that I felt as if I was surrounded by a silvery black-and-white photograph.

Colleen stood next to the trash barrel that held the grass from that morning’s lawn job. Topping the full barrel was a newly deposited layer of paper trash—as from a bathroom wastebasket.

Lemme show you something we found.

Colleen picked up an envelope from the trash and offered it to me. I was taut with nerves and I recoiled backward into Judy as if Colleen was handing me a snake. Judy seemed ready for just such a response, because her hands were up and pushing me back toward Colleen and the envelope. I had no choice but to take it.

It was not like any envelope I had seen. It was smaller, and square. Even in the dim light I could see it wasn’t white, but purple or pink, and I could feel that the edges of the long, pointed flap were textured. Between my fingers the envelope made a sound that was a combination of a crunch and a squeak. It was not sealed.

When I lifted the flap, instead of the scathing note I was by this time sure they would now force me to read aloud, I felt some kind of dry, springy substance lining the bottom of the envelope.

Did you know that it was hairy?

Trying not to betray my confusion, I slowly withdrew my hand from the envelope. Judy’s chin was at my shoulder. Glancing over I saw her own nervousness in her excited eyes.

Yeah, sure I did.

All at once, with a sickening clench of my stomach, I knew that somehow this was Mrs. Clark’s pubic hair. It was something older women had. I’d seen the illustrations and heard about “body changes” in that infamous little film. We practiced modesty at my house, but I also remembered catching a glimpse of the mysterious stuff on my mom at awkward moments in the past. How and why Mrs. Clark’s pubic hair came to be in this envelope and what Colleen and Judy expected me to do with it was too much for me to consider at the time.

My forehead seemed on fire, but I could feel water dripping off my swimming trunks onto the cool cement floor and, standing in that little puddle of my own making, I began to shiver, though the garage was hot and stuffy.

My bladder ached as Colleen stepped closer.

Look at it. It’s my mom’s.

I think I almost knocked Judy down when I dropped envelope and ran.

* * *

Colleen kept the ring. It was never spoken of. I spent the next summer developing a passion for baseball. By the beginning of seventh grade Colleen had moved to Anaheim, the next city over.

I saw Judy only when she drove by in the back seat of older guys’ cars.

I tried one more time with Colleen during the seventh grade. I called her on the telephone one lonely night. I do not remember asking her if she’d read any good books lately nearly as well as I remember the lengthy silence that followed that question, and the sick feeling it gave me.

But I did convince her to go on a movie “date” with me. My mom picked her up and drove us to a theater near her house. She was wearing strange new clothes. A short skirt covered with giant cartoon flowers and a clingy sweater that showed off her newly acquired breasts. I wore what I considered “dress-up clothes”— a white dress shirt tucked in to a pair of black slacks. All Colleen's new friends from her new school were there at that matinee. Before the first movie and during intermission she would sit with me for a minute or two while she looked around, then jump up and return a few seconds later with someone else to show me off to as her “old boyfriend.” During the movies we didn’t talk or touch. At times I wasn’t sure if she was there.

That was the last time I saw Colleen. It would be twelve years for me between naked dances.

Kerry Joan Griffith's "The Bird Watching Adventure"

2005-09-01T14:38:00.000-07:00

Sherri arrived promptly at 9:00 a.m. on a still and peaceful Wednesday morning. We were going bird watching and canoeing at Stone Lagoon. Our spirits were soaring because spring break was finally here and the torrential rains that had plagued us for two weeks had ceased. We were two grade school teachers seeking an adventure.

Sherri had just finished swimming five miles at the CR pool and her curly mahogany hair was still wet. Sporting her new yellow straw hat, she looked like Shirley Temple.

“Hey, Joanie, how do you like this new hat?” she asked me with playful prankish eyes.

“Wow,” I replied. “It sure is a dandy.”

With her brownish red tan and lean physique, she appeared ready for any strenuous outdoor activity. She spoke in a pleasant melodious voice, bubbling over with excitement about our upcoming adventure.

“All you need, good buddy, is a coat, binoculars, and your bird book,” Sherri informed me with confidence. She had everything else. A large brick red canoe was strapped to the top of her little gold truck.

Off we went, down the winding highway. As we drove, I dreamed of beautiful birds and imagined looking up each one of them in my treasured bird book.

Upon our arrival, we enthusiastically lifted the friendly vessel off the truck. Sherri remarked as she paused to stare at the picture perfect lagoon, “I’m overwhelmed by the beauty of this place.” The blue green lagoon, next to the deep azure blue ocean wowed us. The large body of fresh water was framed on two sides by evergreen forests. The nearby marsh was tufted with tall green and fuzzy brown cattails, large floating lilly pads, and masses of tangled thorny bushes. Musical sounds from the whistling and twittering birds filled the air.

“How fortunate we are to live so close to all this,” I announced.

“Yes, isn’t it awesome?” Sherri readily agreed.

We grabbed our lunches, and hopped into the canoe. Sherri carefully positioned herself in the canoe and pulled on her brown wool knit hat and gloves. She buttoned up her full length, extra heavy, wool plaid coat from St. Vinny’s. April could be chilly.

It wasn’t until we were in the canoe that we noticed the lagoon appeared unusually swollen. Apparently the over full lagoon had broken through the long narrow sand spit that had separated it from the massive ocean. This new break, about 75 feet wide, allowed the lagoon to flow directly into the Pacific.

“That is very strange. This lagoon is usually landlocked,” observed Sherri.

Sherri was sitting cross legged in the back of the canoe to navigate its path, and I was crouched awkwardly in the front. By my watch, it was 11:00 a.m. when we paddled off to begin our little adventure. We seemed to glide effortlessly on the water, and when we reached the middle of the vast lagoon, we got our bird books out. No one else was on the lagoon, so we drifted, peacefully, worry free, relishing the quiet time with our bird books. After an hour or so, we decided to put the canoe up near the ocean side of the lagoon, adjacent to a large black stump. This looked like the perfect place for our lunch break, where we could rest in near solitude on the deserted shore.

Suddenly, as we paddled west towards the spit, we unexpectedly found ourselves being pulled in a southerly direction. The current was drawing us into the treacherous gap leading out to the endless depths of the ocean. This bottleneck was sucking water out of the lagoon at a tremendous rate. A choppy roaring channel with large white capped waves surged where the lagoon waves met the ocean current. It resembled a turbulent river moving
rapidly out to sea.

I screamed in terror, “My God. We are going out to sea!”

Sherri shouted in a high pitched voice, “Paddle faster!”

The tiny craft was no match for the gripping current. As we passed helplessly into the narrow opening, Sherri shrieked in panic, “Jump out!” Out of the corner of my right eye, I saw her make her perilous dive. It was a horizontal dive and she cut the water like a knife. This is the last image I have of her. With mindless fear I did what I was told and tried to jump, but fell out the other side of the rocking canoe as it sped through the open jaws of the awaiting sea.

Finding myself in the roaring waterway, I struggled to swim to the sand bank at the channel’s edge. The violent waves thrashed me about, but I did not go under. Human strength was no match for this omnipotent force. Finally, the current let me go. I found myself floating in smooth placid water, utterly alone, seemingly lost forever in the salty abyss. I wondered how I managed to miss the three formidable rocks that were just offshore and opposite the newly forged opening. Total disbelief struck me. I could not believe I was a half mile from land. I could not believe my existence. I examined this fishbowl as I looked for Sherri, but I did not see her. Maybe she is swimming to shore? Will we end up halfway around the world? While I drifted far out in the deep, deep Pacific, I calmly thought, I guess today is the day I’m going to die.

At the time, I recalled a childhood memory. If I’m ever in a drowning situation, I must swim on my back to save myself. So I flipped over and eyeballed the far away shore. As I floated under the cloudless sky, I could see the toes of my white leather adidas jutting from the ends of my 501’s. My quilted navy nylon goose down vest seemed to give me buoyancy as well as some warmth. The frigid water, however, was numbing me as it sucked away my strength. I was feeling fatigued and my peripheral vision was narrowing. What about my mother and dad? My family? I didn’t say goodbye. Would I make it? With firm resolve I declared I must make it. I must see my family again. I swam at a slow steady pace while my arms felt like lead weights. Rolling my arms backwards, over and over, I took a perpendicular path towards shore. After about 20 to 30 minutes, I had closed in on the steep sandy shore. I tried several times to climb out of the icy ocean. The weight of my wet clothing dragged me down. The huge waves tossed me around like a cork and slammed me against the shore. I thought the waves were going to kill me now. They did not want to relinquish their death grip. Finally, on my hands and knees, I clawed my way out of the pounding surf, one arm, one leg at a time.

I found myself on the south side of the lagoon’s opening, cut off from the main beach. I tried to walk around the lagoon to reach highway 101, but it was too swampy. When I returned to the small beach area I looked for Sherri. Maybe she managed to make it to shore. After an hour or two, I spotted a family of three fishing on the north side of the lagoon’s new opening. I yelled to them, telling them of the tragedy. The gray haired man told me I would have to hike over the steep little peak that protruded out into the ocean. He assured me he would meet me on the other side.

I hiked down the lonely beach and surveyed the little mountain. It was steep with loose rocks, a sharp ridge that grew into a rigid little peak as it met the ocean. I’d certainly climbed bigger mountains before, but not alone, and not in a frightened state. Eventually I stumbled shakily down the south side as the lone man climbed up to meet me. I extended my hand to meet the outstretched hand of my savior, this wonderful stranger. I was so grateful and thankful for this caring human. Mr. Hall, whose name I was told later, promised he would take me to his family’s camp where his wife was waiting to provide me with warm clothes and hot chocolate. He informed me that the sheriff was coming.

The sheriff called Sherri’s husband, Jim. Helicopters came. The sheriff’s marine posse brought their rescue boat. When the helicopter pilot spotted the canoe two miles out at sea, Jim told them to leave it there. He wandered the shore searching for his wife. Jim had a frightened look of disbelief on his face. It was obvious he was quite distraught.

He gazed at the sea and looked up and down the vacant beach. Applying his oceanographic skills, he attempted to calculate where Sherri might be had she managed to reach the shore. When he said aloud, “She’s a strong swimmer,” I knew he had hope. He said if she was still in the water though, she was probably gone by now, never to be found. The water was just too unforgiving.

The next day, our dear friend, Judy, came over and drove me to the lagoon. We rode along in silent companionship. Together we hiked the beach looking for our missing friend. We screamed and clutched each other whenever we saw anything that looked like a body. We thought we saw her curly hair, her straw hat, and her stiff arm sticking up. This turned out to be dried seaweed blowing in the wind and a few pieces of rotting driftwood. Sadness enveloped us as we realized our quest was futile.

I asked Judy to pinch me. Was this a surrealistic dream? The two of us were in a stupor. Where was Sherri? Many things went through our heads as we discussed where she might end up: China, Japan, Shelter Cove? Would we ever know? Was our friend lost forever? We thought Sherri probably sank due to her heavy wool coat, rubber boots, and the fact that she really hadn’t much body fat.

A large gathering of family and friends attended a memorial service at Stone Lagoon. We planted a flowering cherry tree near the north side of the lagoon, not far from the parking lot. Sherri’s husband and friends dedicated a kiosk in her name at the new Arcata bird marsh. Jim left his oceanography teaching position at HSU and moved away. He never returned.

Judy and I went back to our fifth grade classes and Sherri’s third grade class went on without her. Her class got a new teacher. My students wrote me very touching cards and letters. They planted a tree for Sherri, even though she did not teach at our school. The tree is quite large and beautiful now, 23 years later.

Sandra Lunt Hill's "Breaking Free from the Color War"

2005-09-01T14:37:00.000-07:00

While our nation is involved in the war in Iraq abroad, back home we Americans seem to have taken sides in an ideological battle between the red and the blue. As I write this, during the 4th of July week, numerous flags on display show the two colors existing
together harmoniously enough, and I wonder why we, as residents of the nation these banners represent, seem to have difficulty following suit.

Some people with whom I’ve discussed this issue say the media hype over red and blue states, as a carry-over from the last presidential election, has no effect on their lives or politics. While I appreciate this “let’s just ignore it and hope it will go away” stance, I
can’t completely agree with it. I suspect that the image of a red and blue US map, reminiscent of textbook graphics showing the division between states during the time of the Civil War, has seeped into our national consciousness in much the same way that an
advertising jingle might lodge itself in an individual’s mind.

For the purpose of writing this article (this autoethnography, or an attempt to examine self and culture), I examined my own perspective, and how it has been colored by the larger, polarized picture. I realized I’ve been guilty of sticking to my own kind (who would mostly fall under the “blue” category) at least since November 2004. I’ve convinced myself that I’m just being polite by not discussing the important issues with people of a more “red” point of view (such as many of my family members). When in reality, I’ve been hiding out in a metaphorical trench of my own digging. People often talk about how we live in “a climate of fear.” If this is so, I believe it’s created by both sides of the red and blue dichotomy.

As one who contributes to the political majority of a blue state, I’ve been discouraged by the amount of anti-liberal propaganda promulgated by the extreme right, especially on the many hate-radio shows I’ve flipped through on my AM dial. On the flip side, I
realize many members of the far Right feel just as persecuted. They say a “liberal media” has vilified their causes. So, if we (red and
blue) are both reeling from perceived injustices, it seems we do have something in common after all. We both know how to feel oppression and use it to gain “victim” status.

We may also have another mutual concern. Most people I’ve talked to don’t like the red and blue paradigm any more than they understand or appreciate the color-code warning system developed by our nation’s department of Homeland Security. While
many of us on the non-Republican side of the bi-chrome scheme may indeed have felt extremely blue after November 2004, we still find the political category distasteful. Most blues I know are the kind of people who would rather be thought of in shades of gray. However, there are also those who say they would rather be thought of as “purple” in their vision. In the spirit of civil discourse, they propose entertaining both “red” and “blue” ideas, mixing the hues together, and maybe even coloring outside the lines.

Using the color “red” as a Republican signifier has baffled me ever since I began noticing a couple of years ago how often Bush and
company wore red ties when making public appearances. Red may be “a power color” when dressing for success, but it’s also
the color of blood, an association neoconservatives might want to avoid--especially since they’ve voiced much dissatisfaction with media reports on body counts or war-time casualties. Additionally, in light of recent history, it seems odd that the creators of the
Patriot Act might think of themselves as “reds.”

(What would McCarthy think?)

After meditating on the strange attachments to red and blue, and acknowledging that segregation themes based on color have done little for our national morale in the past, I’ve been making my own personal attempt to venture into more open territory. Since my
trench had gotten pretty deep, it wasn’t easy to climb out initially. But once I saw the light at play, creating a grander (and yes, more
colorful) display, I happily vowed to become more involved in the world outside my living room.

Communications with “red” friends and family helped me let go of some defenses--especially when I discovered that many of us
have similar concerns about important issues. Blues don’t have a monopoly on worrying about the environment, just as reds haven’t cornered the market on patriotism. It seems we mostly support our troops, even those of us (red and blue) who aren’t certain if we agree with our government’s reasons for prolonged occupation in Iraq. Everyone I’ve talked to also wants to see the world become a better place for future generations. Indeed, it seems most people share a common vision of peace and prosperity as a foundation for building that future. Specifically, such things as affordable healthcare, support for education, and a sound economy seemed high on most people’s lists.

As conversations have continued, many of my friends and family were relieved to learn that I, as a liberal (they seem to have difficulty with the term ‘progressive’), do not favor a Bolshevik-style revolution, do not want to spend American tax dollars on hiring a therapist for Osama bin Laden, and will not vote to expel their children for praying in school. In turn, I was intrigued by how many of my Christian
relatives did not feel threatened by the teaching of the theory of evolution in our public schools, question our current strategy in the Iraq
war, and want more checks on corporate abuses (such as those exhibited in the Enron scandal).

This doesn’t mean I’ve completely recovered from my blue period and adopted a rosier picture of the national scene. However, I feel
I am finally consciously making an attempt to face a personal problem, reflected by a larger societal issue: to get past the narrow view that comes with labeling (the absurdity of which was captured so beautifully in Dr. Seuss’s tale of star-bellied and plain-bellied sneetches) and into a more inclusive mindset. It is because I cannot deny the influence of partisan politics, trickling--as it does--from the abstract world of government into personal lives, that I realize that many of us would benefit from a new, more gracious [purple?] vision. We might learn a great deal more about solving problems (that affect all of us despite our “color codes”) by finding points of agreement, rather than building defensive barriers with rumors and misconceptions.

With the hope that it might help me free myself further from my egocentric refuge, I also tried getting more directly involved in politics.
Owning up to my party of choice found me volunteering at the Democrat’s voter registration booth at Eureka’s Independence Day Fair. After listening to one person tell me my party needed to have the guts to take a more leftist stand, and another person complain about the election of Howard Dean as party chair because he’s “too far left,” I jokingly told my partner that the right and the left do have something in common--they both hate the Democrats. Yet, I also thoroughly enjoyed experiencing the true essence of the democratic experience--that is, to paraphrase Walt Whitman, listening to all sides and filtering them for myself.

In my current efforts I feel like Shakespeare’s Miranda beholding “a brave new world,” as I take steps to come out of my sheltered,
one-sided thinking and into the diverse “real” landscape that exists outside of the authority of “media” interpretations. In order to fully appreciate the variety of hues, shapes and perspectives involved in the real stuff of life, I found it necessary to work my way out
of a sort of warped, paint-by-numbers impression. Examining “color” politics helped me understand how absurd narrow categories can be, especially when applied to creative human nature. Who would be ridiculous enough to suggest that an artist like Van Gogh paint with just a few colors in a prescribed style--what an aesthetic disaster! By the same token, I think of how destructive it would be to keep living according to a divisive strategy: what a loss of democratic opportunity for all of us reds, blues, purples and oranges who still feel the pulse of the American promise of “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.”

Elizabeth Who's "Eating out of the Mainstream: A Vegetarian's Journey"

2005-09-01T14:35:00.000-07:00

When it comes to suppertime, most people in this country share a hunger for succulent, protein-laden meat. From coast to coast, mainstream America salivates over steak, craves hamburgers, and enjoys eating hot dogs before digging into the apple pie. The term main dish really means meat dish. This leaves us vegetarians out foraging in the side streams. Until doing research for this paper, I hadn’t realized the truly marginal status of my group. Only 2.5% of Americans never eat meat, fish, or poultry, and 4.5% exclude just meat (beef and pork).[i] Technically, I’m an ovo-lactovegetarian. This diet includes plant foods (vegetarian) plus cheese and other dairy products (lacto) and includes eggs (ovo). As individuals, vegetarians have diverse eating patterns and varied reasons for joining the group, but we share the vegetarian label and the experience of being different. Because the consumption of food is so often a social event, we regularly stand out.

My own journey to vegetarianism didn’t begin until I left home. Growing up in Missouri, a stronghold of tradition and conformity, I was served meat as the basis of every cooked meal. Nobody I knew shunned it. The only special dietary choices I noticed were made by my Catholic and Jewish friends on religious grounds, and for some reason my Aunt Jean’s meat had to be plain and could not touch other food on her plate. Once, when I was about nine, my siblings and I had to watch my grandpa butcher a pig. It was supposed to be one of those life lessons, seeing exactly where the sausage came from. Trying to appear tough, I watched the whole process with outward calm while my insides squeamishly churned. Although I was thoroughly disgusted, it didn’t occur to me to question our practice of eating meat. It was what was for dinner.

Then I went off to university in California and discovered a whole new range of non-mainstream menu options I’d never encountered before: quesadillas, nori rolls, baba-ganouj, and veggie burgers. I found that I really liked them. Every dorm meal had a vegetarian option that made it easy to avoid meat, but I was busy with school and didn’t think too much about it. It wasn’t yet possible to google “vegetarian” and I needed more information and time before taking a public stand. When I went home for the holidays, I ate what was served. I felt like I’d hurt my mother’s feelings by moving so far away, and I didn’t want to add to my sense of guilt by totally rejecting my home culture.

Senior year, I met Tom. A die-hard vegetarian, he berated meat eaters and offered lengthy descriptions detailing the feelings of the sentient beings being consumed by our housemates. We encouraged him to change his annoying tactics, and eventually he even became pleasant to live with. When I finally got to know him and acknowledged his peculiar sense of humor (he was a big wall climber and a physics major), I found that I agreed with many of his ideas and was able to ask him questions about actually being a vegetarian. Tom was responsible for an important part of my education.

After graduation, I finally took the time to examine my beliefs about eating animals. During a three-day solo on an Outward Bound experience, I found myself with plenty of time to contemplate. Although I had caught and killed plenty of fish, I had never killed a bird or mammal. The explicit visualization made me queasy. When I was 13, my dad offered to take me on his annual hunting trip to Wyoming, but I realized then that I couldn’t and wouldn’t kill anything as elegant and innocent as a deer. Now as an adult, I reasoned that if I wasn’t willing to kill an animal myself, then it was hypocritical to let someone else do the dirty work for me, like politicians sending poor kids to fight their wars. It became clear to me that I couldn’t support the killing of animals for ethical reasons, and I became, officially, a vegetarian.

Choosing to be part of a minority group has its challenges. Being vegetarian can complicate social gatherings and make bonding more difficult. We can’t help but make judgments when we sit down to eat together and notice the choices others make. Some people feel personally offended when you won’t share their cooking. Midwesterners, especially, tend be disdainful and somewhat incredulous. They see us as picky eaters, too snobbish to eat what’s perfectly good for everyone else, or just plain weird. It’s as if they want me to admit that really I’m just trying to be a pain in the ass, like my brother-in-law who doesn’t eat onions. But vegetarians aren’t trying to be annoying; we don’t even want to draw attention to ourselves. Over-concerned people worry that I’m not getting enough protein and bend over backwards to ensure that I’ll get plenty to eat. Although I appreciate their kindness, I’m really just fine with whatever vegetables and grains are available.

Restaurants present difficulties for people on meat-free diets. While packaged food in the store at least lists ingredients, cooks are much more elusive about what they use in the kitchen. Animal products are pervasive; chicken stock seasons vegetable soups, and McDonald’s admits that their french fries derive part of their flavor from an animal source.[ii] Being vegetarian in California, the land of fruits and nuts, is fairly easy. Not so in the heartland. At a restaurant in Minneapolis, I had to special order lunch. Every one of the main dishes, appetizers and even salads on the menu included meat!

I’ve learned a couple things from my years as a vegetarian. One is that to have a social life or eat out, I have to make exceptions and not freak out about little things. The other is that the topic of food choice does not make good table conversation. It is difficult to succinctly answer the question, “Why don’t you eat meat?” In an article titled, “Why I’m a Vegetarian,” The Whole Earth Vegetarian Catalogue lists 49 reasons categorized by environment, personal health, personal finances, and ethics – all 49 of which appeal to me.[iii] I find the longer my journey takes, the more reasons I have to support my position and the more particular my choices become. Now, my food choices are more about environmental effects and the conditions of workers and animals than whether or not it’s vegetarian. As you can imagine, conversation about dietary decisions can be unappetizing It’s easier to enjoy the gustatory experience without the question coming up at all. I do appreciate it when hosts or other potluck guests inform me that their offering is or isn’t vegetarian. It’s hard to tell just by looking, and I don’t want to risk offending people by inquiring about their ingredients. Eating with others should be more about accepting differences than trying to change minds.

However, I would like to invite you to think about the issue of eating meat. Susan B. Anthony, Albert Einstein, Vincent Van Gogh, Mr. Rogers, and Hank Aaron were all vegetarians. I wonder why. To paraphrase Socrates, the unexamined meal is not worth eating. Consider the food choices you make: Do you eat horse, dog, cat, or crickets? We all draw the line somewhere, for reasons of taste, religion, ethics, or cultural standards. And it’s not just an issue for liberals anymore. Recently conservative columnist George F. Will, considering the animal abuses occurring as part of industrial livestock farming, argued that as reasonable and moral beings we have the obligation to refrain from cruelty. Would you be willing to discuss the Humane Farming Act that he supports? [iv] Dialogue is crucial in a democracy, and it can help inform our decisions. Maybe now’s the time to talk to that vegetarian that you know, find out about their story, and tell them yours. Just don’t bring it up when you sit down to eat. Bon Appétit.

Andrew Hudson's "Barreras y Fronteras: A Memoir of Clashes with Spanish"

2004-09-01T14:32:00.000-07:00

A voice from the hallway shouted, “Andrew, telefono para ti.” Charo, our landlady and neighbor, had access to our apartment through a door connecting our two halls. Since we had no phone, we immediately assumed it was an emergency. My wife’s family wouldn’t bother to call our neighbors to reach us otherwise.

Marta and I had been living in her home town of Salamanca, Spain for six months, and my Spanish was still very shaky, but I tried my best to make sense of what my father-in-law--mi suegro--Cipriano, was trying to tell me over the phone.

“Tu abuelo se murio,” he said in his gruff voice. “Your grandfather has died.” He told me that my brother Pete, who was planning to visit us the following month, had called to give us the sad news. An ice-hot jolt shot out from the center of my body to the fingertips and toes, which immediately gave way to a numbness originating in the chest that began to seep slowly out toward the extremities. I stood there a while in Charo’s hall, unmoving, staring down at the pale green and white speckles in the tiles of the floor, the phone gripped far too tightly in my hand, as if letting go would bring another death in the family. But even this incapacitating dread let go its grasp when a timid voice piped up inside my head and asked, “Which one?” Disjointed images of the previous year’s holidays came flashing up. Grandpa Hudson’s lung cancer had gone into remission, I thought. And he had looked great at Christmas. And Pop Williams was walking ten miles a day or something last I heard…

I don’t remember how the conversation ended. I only know it ended awkwardly, just like every conversation with my suegro. I hung up the phone, told Marta, and within minutes we were rushing downtown to call my parents from the international phone center. When my mom came on the line with a happy, playful tone—“Andrew, what a nice surprise! Hey, Dan, get on the other line. It’s the world traveler!”—I knew that something wasn’t quite right, but I had to clear things up.

“Mom, did Grandpa die?”

“What? Of course not,” she said. “Why on Earth are you calling to ask a question like that?”

“But Pete called, Mom. He talked to Marta’s dad. He said…”

Well now, what had he said exactly? This was the key to the mystery. My brother, who knew “dos coronas con limon” but little else, had entered into a tenuous dialogue via trans-Atlantic link with a man whose English was limited to a handful of words, like water, which in Spain means “toilet.”

Over the next few weeks Marta and I made a game out of guessing which Spanish words Pete must have strung together for Cipriano to think that my grandpa had passed away.

As we suspected, my brother was only calling to let us know when he was coming to visit. Since Marta and I had no phone, Pete knew he’d have to pass on his flight information to my Spanish-speaking in-laws, so—no worries—he had his trusty Berlitz English-Spanish pocket dictionary handy for the call.

Unable to construct a meaningful sentence, he must have said something like “Yo—ir—vuelo—Madrid,” which translates, “I—to go—flight—Madrid.” Now that may be choppy, but it is comprehensible. Unfortunately, however, my suegro wasn’t reading; he was listening, and what he heard must have sounded like his lengua madre, his mother tongue passing through a meat grinder.

But the question remained: How did Cipriano take this to mean that grandpa has passed away? To begin with, it only takes a single vowel to turn vuelo into abuelo, since ‘b’ and ‘v’ sound the same in Spanish. This miraculously transformed my brother’s “flight” into our “grandfather.” Then he must have mistaken Madrid (the city where Pete would arrive in Spain) for the verb morir, meaning “to die.”

Who could have guessed that my grandfather’s fate would one day dangle between the mispronunciation and misunderstanding of two simple words? Such are the dangers of bilingual word-play, and, considering the great story we now have to tell, such are the rewards.

* * * * * * *

In the endless struggle to improve my Spanish I’ve often had to overcome barriers, and each time it seems like the first scramble over las barreras, the first crossing over las fronteras the frontiers of language.

The first time I started counting uno, dos, tres was so long ago I don’t really remember. The first barrera I recall presented itself when I was seven or eight, when my parents signed me up for a summer school class in Spanish. After counting proudly desde uno hasta diez, I was shocked to find that los numeros en espanol didn’t stop there. I listened to my classmates go on beyond veinte while I grew red in the face, vowing to drop out and never speak a word of that preposterous language again.

I broke that promise to myself when I decided to give it a second chance in Chelita’s high school Spanish class. (The teacher went by the name Chelita to lend herself more of a latin flair, but it didn’t do much good. We all knew she was really Miss Stromwasser.) As Andres, I spent three years charlando el espanol con Chelita, but my friends and I wasted most of the time goofing off in class and making poor Chelita miserable.

If I had only known that one day I would travel overseas to fall in love with una Espanola, I might have taken my foreign language studies more seriously. Then again, maybe not. After all, Marta was already fluent in English when we met, so we could communicate en ingles sin problema. But oh, how I wanted to impress! Cupid’s arrows gave me the foolish courage to communicate in her lengua madre. Put on the spot, I could find nothing to talk about. Marta asked me gently, “Cuentame un cuento”—tell me a story. But all I could remember from three years of Chelita’s high school Spanish was the sad story of la pobre Marianela, que era muy fea y deforme. Poor Marianela was very ugly and deformed. I warned Marta, but she wanted to hear it anyway, so I did my best. Here’s a translation in English, without all the stuttering, sputtering, and errores gramaticales:

“Poor Marianela was a baby. Her parents left her on the bridge. A dog came. He was very curious. He pushed her over the bridge with his nose. It was an accident. Marianela fell. The river was dry. Poor Marianela. She fell down to the rocks and stones. She didn’t die. After she was very ugly and deformed. No one liked her. But she was still very nice. Poor Marianela. One day everything changed. Mario came to the village. He was a blind man. It wasn’t important that Marianela was ugly and deformed. She was very nice. That was important. Marianela thought Mario was nice, too. Then they lived together and had a happy life. The end.”

This was the most Spanish I’d ever spoken at one time. Marta coached me the whole time, but I was telling the story. It felt wonderful. After that, she would regularly slip in una expression aqui, una frase alla, and I was eager to use them. I learned to call her carino, and mi cielo, instead of “sweetie-pie” and “honey.”

* * * * * * * *

The next significant frontier-crossing was both linguistic and geographic: the moment we stepped onto the soil of mainland Spain—for Marta a homecoming she had been dreading, for me a first meeting of the in-laws—a dreadful enough prospect without the language barrier to compound things. I really do wish I could forget the excruciating car ride with Marta’s parents from the port city of Valencia to their condo in Oropesa, an hour’s drive up the east coast. Nothing could have prepared me for the non-stop staccato of Marta’s mother, mi suegra, who kept turning around from the front seat of the car, asking me questions, rapid fire, one after the other: “Bueno, Andrew, que te parece de Espana? Es precioso, no? Que has visto en Mallorca? Es una isla divina, no? Las playas, el agua, los pueblos. Tienes hambre? Tienes sed? Seguro que quieres comer algo, no? Pero que te pasa? Porque no contestas?” Marta had to translate nearly every word. Most questions either revealed a patriotic pride in the beauty of her native land, or a near obsessive concern about the ravenous hunger and thirst she imagined I possessed, regardless of how many times Marta told her I was fine, que no nececitaba nada ahora. Well, maybe just un poquito de agua para la boca seca—a little water for my mouth that seemed to be getting drier by the minute. Though Marta’s performance as simultaneous interpreter was awe-inspiring, I couldn’t help feeling helpless and stupid myself.

We spent two painful weeks in that apartment con los ojos de mis suegros following our every move, sus oidos scrutinizing our every word. I felt embarrassed and even rude to be speaking English, but what else could I do? There wasn’t a moment of privacy, except when we went to sleep.

There were moments of absolute panic, when I’d feel the sweat spreading under my arms, dripping down my back, beading on my face. I’d throw nervous glances over at Marta, who’d throw them right back. I had desperate thoughts that I was unable to express in words:

Please, Marta’s mother—Emilia, right? Amalia? My God, I can’t even remember your name right now! Could you please speak a little slower? I don’t understand what you’re saying. Do you think I’m as much of an idiot as I feel like right now?

Please, Cipriano, could you pronounce your words a little slower, a little clearer? What is it you’re asking me to do? I can’t understand your mumbling! Why do you keep staring at me with that frown? Let me out of here!

And this was only the beginning. So many times I’d stare back at my suegra and say “Que?” Oh, wonderful. How eloquent. You knew that word before you ever even took a Spanish class.

“Ay,” Emilia would say shaking her head compassionately, “no entiende nada, el pobre.” “The poor guy doesn’t understand a thing.” Well, I understood that much.

“Si, si, yo entiendo,” I’d manage, but not much more. Still, I’d try. I had to. There wasn’t a choice anymore. I’d have to learn to spit it out or choke on it.

As time went by my suegra, bless her heart, began to slow down when she spoke to me, and to simplify her language. I knew it was extra work, and appreciated her thoughtfulness. But my suegro? It was a lost cause from the start. Whether he was unwilling or unable I may never know, but Cipriano’s words always came out as a gravelly grumble, whether he was speaking to me or anyone else. On the day we left Spain, after having lived for ten months in Salamanca, I could still hardly understand him when he bid me adios and wished me un buen viaje.

Learning a second language by total immersion was a continuously nerve-racking, brain-tiring process. I was forced, time and time again, to kick my head gears into overdrive just to keep up with simple, everyday conversations, to sink my teeth into the meat of a particular message—on TV, on the radio, on the street, and especially around the table when we’d get together with Marta’s family and friends.

I remember long visits from aunts, uncles, cousins, and old school pals. Everyone, it seemed, would be talking at the same time. How they could speak and listen to multiple narratives at the same time in any language was mystifying to me. If I had had the appropriate meter, I suppose they all would have averaged about thirty words per second, keeping in mind that your average Spanish word throws in a few extra syllables just for fun. (Example: The little flying mammal we refer to as the single-syllable “bat” becomes the five-syllable mouthful “murcielago.” Well, in the midst of this linguistic maelstrom I’d sit jerking my eyes from one babbling mouth to the next, desperately trying to latch onto the train of thought, only to be interrupted by, “Bueno, y que crees, Andrew?” Someone, meaning to make me feel a part of the conversation, would ask, “Well, Andrew, what do you think?” All talking would stop and all eyes would turn to me, waiting.

If you’ve ever had one of those dreams where you find yourself in a crowded public place dressed only in your underwear, or less, then I’m sure you have a pretty good idea what it felt like in these situations. There’d be nowhere to hide, nothing to cover myself with, no one to turn to. So what would I say? “Pues, no lo se.” The cop out: “Well, I don’t know.” The pressure would be off for the moment, but I’d feel cowardly, unable to rise to the challenge.

Some days I prayed for a stop to the continuous stream of puro castellano. The language was a steady barrier between me and the world all around. I now sympathize with dogs when they get that strange, tortured look whenever human beings talk to them. I’m sure I would get that same look on my face when spoken to in Spanish: head slightly cocked to one side, eyes wide open—questioning, eager, but hopelessly lost.

Nevertheless, I stuck with it. I worked hard at it, and I believe it has paid off. I can now express myself fairly fluently in Spanish, and understand most of what I hear. But I still yearn for better word command, the power to speak with more color, more grace. Marta says, “Hablas muy bien, carino,” but she’s never has had the heart to add to my discouragement.

The best I can say is that it’s an ongoing struggle that demands untiring determination. Whenever I find myself lacking in spirit, I only need to look back over the battle-torn landscape I’ve crossed to get to where I am today. Considering the distance, and the difficulty, why should I still feel as though I were in no-man’s-land?

As I peer into the haze ahead, I realize there may not be any paradise of perfect fluency at the end of my journey, only future barreras to surmount y fronteras to cross—tiny, isolated skirmishes that simply come with the territory.

¡Adelante!

Sue McIntyre's "Not Even a Dog"

2004-09-01T14:31:00.000-07:00

My husband and I were on a “first date” with a couple we had recently met. After a visit to their home, drinks and conversation, a walk to a Japanese restaurant, and more drinks over a long wait for our table, we were chatting comfortably by the time we were seated at the tepanyaki table. Our conversation was soon interrupted, however, by a birthday song belted at top volume by the party two tables away from ours. As the high-pitchedtones subsided and the birthday girl’s cake was served, the four of us covertly scrutinized the swarming table of merry seven- through ten-year olds and tried to maintain our banter. A small squabble broke out at one end of the birthday action, and we all turned to our salads without comment. A few more moments passed, and we overheard enraged whispers of “He did…” and “She said…” Fortunately, this disagreement blew over as the gift-opening excitement built. Amidst the gaiety and activity, I noticed three adults poised on the edge of the frenzy—the parents of the birthday girl, plus one reinforcement. They stood at attention with battle-weary faces, ready to swoop in and smooth over skirmishes, facilitate activities, and provide a kind word to those who needed it.

I lounged tipsily in my padded seat. “That,” I said with gravity, turning to my companions and gesturing to the table of sugar- and caffeine-high youngsters and their attentive escorts, “is one reason we are not having children.” A moment of silence greeted my statement. Finally, René broke the suspense. “Jim and I don’t plan to have children, either,” she confessed, as Jim nodded emphatically. With sighs of relief, we nestled into our chairs, beamed at each other, and ordered another round of drinks—celebrating what we all knew to be the beginning of a long friendship.

I realize that to many people outside this group of newly-found intimates, René and my comments may have sounded uncaring, or even anti-family. “Do they hate children?” they may wonder. “How old are they? Aren’t they married? Are they gay? Can’t they have children?” It’s not too hard for me to imagine these questions, as the majority of them, however personal they may seem, have been directed to me at one time or another in the three or four years since Eddie and I have decided not to have children. Even now, I struggle to explain our choice when interrogated by a well-meaning friend or acquaintance regarding our nontraditional lifestyle. At times I feel temporarily guilty. Why am I rejecting the usual path that couples in our culture take? Occasionally I can’t help but feel that I’m not holding up my end of things in some way, as if I’m letting down “the system.” And, indeed, this feeling of fertility failure is reiterated every year on April 15th, when my husband and I pay the penalty for having two incomes and zero dependents. The IRS, at least, does not sanction our living arrangement.

Until Eddie and I made the decision not to have children, I never knew I’d have to explain our choice. Once the decision was made, however, I suddenly found that there’s an unspoken, but strong, expectation in our society that married couples have children. Sometimes when we tell people that we’re not having kids, they look at us suspiciously. Often, they will launch into an ode to childbearing—interpreting our decision as a judgment on theirs. At times, I consider taking the moral high ground and am tempted to tell people that our non-child decision is based on our belief in zero population growth, the uncertainty of the world, and our desire not to add more people to the problems of the future. I imagine these to be the reasons childless couples in more highbrow circles use, and they’re compelling, but they are not at the top of our list—nor on the lists of our similarly childless friends. Instead, a simpler philosophy, supplied by my grandmother, seems to apply: “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” Eddie and I have developed a home life that we like and don’t desire to change it by adding a new member to the family. “It’s a positive form of selfishness,” I tell people. We’re comfortable with the people we are right now, and we’re confident that we can spend the rest of our lives invested in self- and mutual-discovery.

Looking back on it now, I realize that there are some early signs of my eventual decision to remain childless. When I was a child, my friend, Annie, told me she was going to have 12 children. Chrissy said that she was only having five. I was a bit vague on the whole child thing. I never had a number, and I could never commit to the idea that my few dolls were “babies.” I was never a tomboy, but I was more interested in books or imagining the house my friends and I would build if we ran away than babies or playing house. While my best friend and I agreed when we were six that we would get married when we were 10 and “old enough,” he and I both had the general feeling that this would not change our living situations. I didn’t see the picket fence, the dog in the yard, and the 2.3 (or 12 or 5) children; only the husband seemed plausible—and then, only if he’d live with my mom and me. This wasn’t a constant, of course. While in college I specifically declared that I would never have kids, over the years I began to consider the possibility of children--if only by not considering NOT having them.

When I talk to the married and childless women friends I currently have, there’s not a lot of consensus as to whether or not we knew from an early age that we wouldn’t have children. Denise says that she had her names picked out for her four children—two boys and two girls—by the time she was eleven. Justine, on the other hand, explains, “It’s always been my goal to get through life without changing a single dirty diaper.” Regardless of original intent, most of my childless friends didn’t make the decision to remain childfree at the beginning of their marriages or partnerships. It was a process, as was the case with Eddie and me. “When we’re parents…” quietly changed to “If we have kids…” to be replaced by “If we have a child…” until we finally found ourselves sitting at the dinner table one night, struggling to come up with good reasons to have kids. That we should even be engaging in such an activity seemed to be answer enough.

Eddie and my decision to delay—and then forgo—adding children to the family arrangement was originally based on finance, and this is true of many of my childless friends. Most of us have been through college, and many have advanced degrees—a process that accompanies living in substandard housing, eating Ramen noodles twice daily, and shopping second hand for everything. After graduation there were student loans to pay and lower level jobs to get through. Eventually, as our financial situations became more stable, we simply wanted to make up for our time of sacrifice by spending money on ourselves. Indeed, I value the season tickets we purchase for the local arts events, and I relish the opportunity to buy my favorite books when they first come out, rather than waiting for the paperback version to be released. One of the things I know Eddie and I would have to give up if we had children is spending money on entertainment. At least once per week, and frequently twice, my husband and I eat dinner out—by ourselves or with friends. It’s not unusual that we spend $80-100 at these dinners, once the drinks, dessert, coffee, and tip are factored in. Besides these meals, we look forward to Sunday breakfasts with Kim and David and regular lunches with friends, co-workers, or each other. Sure, eating out is a luxury, and one we could likely do without, but as a childless couple we don’t have to make the decision of whether to eat at our favorite restaurants or add to the kids’ college funds.

Truthfully, the life we currently live would not be possible with the added burden of children. In addition to money, the main thing children take from their parents is time. Reading and playing with them; feeding, bathing, and talking to them; chauffeuring them to one event after another; counseling them; fighting with them: all of these things take time and energy. I’m happy that I don’t have to sacrifice afternoons spent with a good book or hours spent on the computer to sit through 12 years of little Billy’s annual Spring Concert, attend another of little Mary’s inane sporting events, and smile through the birthday parties and celebrations of Mary and/or Billy’s friends. Even the Purple Heart would be insignificant compensation for the valor needed to raise a youngster into adulthood, in my imagination. Just watching awkward, acne-covered teenagers cruising at the mall is enough to make me think: “Did I take my pill today? Is 99.9% effective enough? Is there a stronger dosage?”

With children, I never would have been able to consider spending two recent summers working on an archaeological project in Mexico. I couldn’t have spent two weeks with my sister while she recuperated from surgery—immediately after Eddie and I returned from two weeks in Spain. If they had kids, my friends Dave and Justine certainly wouldn’t be able to operate the said archaeological project—nor would they have traveled to Peru this past winter, St. Bart’s the year before, or have tickets to Belize and Cuba for this coming December. René and Jim wouldn’t be able to jog and row together every morning, and Teri wouldn’t be able to travel to Europe every few months as her business demands, while George locks himself in his office to meet his article or book deadline. Our monthly Girls’ Poker Night/Boys Night Out would certainly dissolve, and, as for that, forget any regular socializing—beyond Mommy and Me classes. Indeed, the freedom that being childless offers is likely its greatest advantage. Everyone I know who has kids travels less than the childless couples I know, and when they do travel, people with children go to grandma and grandpa’s house or a campground within a reasonable driving distance. I’m not saying that all childless couples are jet setters, but it’s certainly easier to travel without children: a family trip to the local movie theater with children in tow requires more preparation than many childless couples need to plan a three week Himalayan adventure—and our backpacks weigh much less than the average diaper bag.

I turned 38 this year, and I’ve become certain that the decision Eddie and I have made to remain childless is the right one for us. Still, at times—mainly when I watch a family movie or am exposed to what Justine calls a “trick” baby (one of the gurgling, non-crying, rash-free type)--I can’t help but worry. Will we be missing out on something important? How will our relationship fare? After all, Eddie and I have very few role models for a childless marriage. I don’t know a single older couple that has been married for a lifetime and has remained childless. Married, mature public figures have children. Married people in TV and movies have children. What will our “golden years” be built upon, if not our children and grandchildren?

It’s questions like these that make me relieved to meet couples like René and Jim, who have made the same decision we did. At least we’re not alone. Surprisingly, in addition to them, we are also friends with two other couples who remain childless and plan to do so; another couple we know cannot have children, although they would have liked one; and a fifth couple is not planning to have children together, although he has two children from a previous marriage. These friends, as well as a number of single people and older couples whose children are grown and have left their homes, comprise our social circle. None of us have to find baby sitters, and we don’t have to worry about people bringing children to our adult events—something that still takes me by surprise when socializing with the child-ful. Indeed, whatever inspires people to bring their toddler to a wine tasting at 9:00 in the evening is a mystery that will remain forever unsolved for the childless among us.

Despite our circle of childless friends, Eddie and I have attended a few mysterious events, due to the fact that many childless couples have dogs, cats, or both. Indeed, I must admit to taking part in an annual dog beach birthday party—during which six to eight dogs eat themselves sick, run around in a frenzy, and pose for pictures in party hats. Replace the dogs in this description with children, and the activities are strikingly similar to those at a child’s party. On the other hand, I wouldn’t feel comfortable kneeing the six-year-old girl who jumped up on me or ignoring the barks of the five-year-old boy demanding a playmate. There’s a limit to dog-party-invitee responsibilities, and they are limits I value as a childless —and pet-less—guest. And, while we do attend this dog-fest, Eddie and I just aren’t able to commit to the responsibilities of dog ownership ourselves. Indeed, when asked yet again about our plans to have children, I’ve begun responding with, “Kids? No way! We can’t even handle a dog.”

As isolated as we may seem, there is an ankle biter in our lives. My husband’s brother and his wife live in Portland, and they had a baby boy last September. We’re looking forward to being a great aunt and uncle to him, for, as I always say, while I’m not that fond of children, I really like the accessories. Buying miniature clothes, fascinating toys, and mesmerizing books for our nephew is a joy. We’ll do a splendid job watching him for a few weeks over the summers or holidays, too—always ready to turn him back to his parents, with a new drum set, at the end of the annual visit. The fact that our nephew lives 400 miles away will ensure that our visits are limited to those we plan, too—forgoing the need for us to make excuses to avoid regular babysitting. Actually, this distance from child-laden family is very common among our childless friends, whose closest relatives live in Texas, Ohio, Los Angeles, Chicago, and British Columbia. Because of this, we’re also more connected to each other than we are to our families. We often celebrate the holidays together, and we depend on each other for entertainment, advice, and assistance. And, when we’re together we don’t have to explain our childless status. (“No, Aunt Mary, no children yet” and “I’m sure your children are a blessing, Cousin Margaret.”) Instead, we can debate the issues surrounding education and child poverty and juvenile crime in an abstract manner. We can horrify each other with stories of the boy who peed his pants in the middle of the concert hall and the minions-of-Satan who dismantled the entire Sizzling Summer picnic display at the local department store in the time it took their mother to try on a single dress.

“How do people bear it?” we can wonder aloud, sip our cocktails, and lean back in our hot tubs.

Esmeralda Miranda Howard's Autobiographical Incident

2004-09-01T14:29:00.000-07:00

As soon as I got up, I knew something was wrong. The sun was hiding behind the clouds, as if it was embarrassed, frightened or avoiding its inevitable appearance, like it didn't want to witness one more time the spectrum of our darkest selves. The air was so thick you could cut it with a knife. The roosters crowed out of time. The cows gathered restless close to the gate," They don't want to give any milk dad" cried out my brother from the corral."Just let them go" My dad answered helplessly. My brother opened the gate, but they just mooed and huddled closer together. The long, sad, almost agonizing howling of the dogs was so revealing. I felt like an electric charge had run trough my body. It was clear. It had happened again.

"An owl was hooting again last night, I chased him away but he came back after midnight," commented my dad in his serene tone of voice. " the chickens have been clucking at night too. I killed one, but the other ones had chicks." continued my mom. " But the butterfly that was inside the house yesterday wasn't black mom, It was brown." Added my sister in a hopeful voice. " Thank Goodness! At least its not in the family." Sighed my mom with some relief.

At midmorning my sister and I saw my uncle whispering something to my parents. My mom walked into the room. I followed her. She opened that bag in the closet, The same red plastic bag my sister and I did not want to come close to when we were cleaning the room, the one that gave us chills, and dark thoughts. I saw my mom pulling out a white blanket decorated with white embroidered and ruffles. She walked back and gave it to my uncle. My dad handed him a plastic tarp, and my uncle left. There were no more comments the rest of the morning Our bodies moves slowly. I remembered I hadn't showered that morning. I didn't want to be by myself, no even for five minutes in the shower. My body felt sleepy. I wished I could go to sleep for a long, long time without closing my eyes.

I vaguely remember my mother's voice calling me to have some breakfast. The tortillas and cheese were there, even the Gallo Pinto seemed very appetizing, but nobody has touched it. I only had some coffee in a timid intent to get my soul back in my body. At that moment I heard the sound of a truck stopping on the street. My dad opened the front doors. Some neighbors gathered to help. I couldn't understand their whispering. My sight got blurred, I remember six men carrying the heavy object. Four of them were lifting the green tarp by it corners and two other men by it middle edges. I could see my mom's white blanket on top, covering the weight. They all had handkershifts folded in triangles across their noses, and their hands were in plastic bags tied to their wrists with strings. I had already decided I was going to run inside the house and cover my eyes, my nose and my ears, but my body was nailed to the floor. My mind was absent, my eyes were immobile and yet following the effort of the six men carrying the heavy package. I saw a pair of boots sticking out of the blanket, then an arm that slipped heavily out of the tarp. Once again I saw myself running to the bedroom, but I was still there watching a light blue and white stripped, long sleeve shirt, pulled half way to the elbow, showing the light skin and hairy arm, the stretch marks of it swollen flesh, and the crimson spots were his finger nails used to be. They deposited the lifeless body on the side walk of my house, and my uncle pulled the blanket from his face, another young man in his early twenties.

One more time my mother went to the red bag and pulled some candles. People gathered in a circle and prayed for his soul, or probably ours. More neighbors came and whispered a quick prayer for him. A few minutes later he was taken away in my dad's ox cart to the cemetery were a quick grave was dug and his body was buried , without a coffin, without tombstone, without a name. My mother and my sister stayed home to wash the sidewalk with Creolina. My dad said it was effective to kill the worms, and the smell. I was absent, I was there, I was watching.

Anna Moore's "Encouraging Analysis Writing about Literature"

2004-05-30T14:28:00.000-07:00

The Problem:

My students love to write summary. At times, when working through a batch of essays, I think my students must write summary on purpose, like if they do, I’ll step in and rewrite their papers; I’ll do the thinking for them. I began to assign more structured essays, thinking that a very detailed and specific scaffold, a fool-proof map, would guarantee that they would stay focused on analysis and get to the points that I was waiting for them to make. Structure didn’t work. Even though I provided a big block of space on my beautiful handouts under the bolded heading “Analysis of Quotation,” students happily continued to write summery. At 2002 CATE conference, I attended Jane Schaffer’s session where she discussed the importance of structure. While I’ve not adopted that structure, one item from her session stuck with me: the word commentary.

That single word may not seem like a big deal, but it has changed the way I teach literary analysis to my transfer-level students. I have been able to find suggestions in the field to help students write more lively, engaging essays about literature, and while many of those suggestions sound like fun ideas, I can’t see how the prompts help students write the formal, analytical essays that my students are required to write. I found that most teachers who discuss strengthening student response to literature completely scrap the analytically driven essay. For a moment, I was relieved to find agreement that there is a time and place for the formal essay in Virginia R. Monseau’s book Responding to Young Adult Literature, but I failed to find an explanation on how her creative ideas for responding to literature help students shape those academic essays. For instance, I can see using her assignment to ask students to select a character from the story and select an item that they think the character would donate to a charity auction as a prompt for a quick write. She says the activity helps students “escape the bonds of the traditional essay form” (64). The prompt succeeds in that students cannot summarize the story to answer this question; they have to step outside of the story and consider the character’s values; they begin thinking. But what happens when they begin to compose? I continue to struggle to find a way to include student response to this prompt into character analysis essays.

Sheridan Blau applauds unconventional prompts for opening up student response and encouraging individual analysis. He suggests that well-organized essays, even with sufficient commentary, often fail because they “treat texts as objects requiring mechanical analysis rather than as invitations to genuine human illumination and pleasure” (101). Blau encourages his students to take risks, sometimes turning in a collection of chunks of ideas or notes that need none of the traditional markers like thesis or transitions. He does not discourage the use of “I” because the pronoun helps students to engage with the text (Blau 161). Again, I can see using these techniques to engage a student, but when it comes to asking a student to tackle the traditional thesis-driven essay, any enthusiasm my students were showing drops away.

So how does the word commentary both engage the student and regain their enthusiasm during the composing process of the thesis-driven essay? Because the word gives students confidence that they are often lacking. Blau also notes that writing is a problem “because students don’t always cooperate by having the kind of intellectual experience we anticipate for them” (152). Students fail to satisfyingly discuss the text because analyzing literature is a foreign concept for so many students. Most do not spend their free time reading. Few spend time sitting together with their friends discussing books that they have read. How, then, can we expect them to have any kind of familiarity with what we are asking them to do when we analyze literature? Those two words—analyze and literature—intimidate me; they freeze students. Introducing commentary first and asking them to become commentators, I’ve found, provides students with the confidence to analyze a piece of literature.

What We Do:

Around week three of our eighteen-week semester, I ask my students to make a list of situations where they offer commentary in their everyday lives. I’ve not talked about analyzing stories at all at this point. We have talked about plot structure but not about using the elements to analyze a story. I want to start with what they know first. Students easily come up with a list of places they see commentary: news, sports, politics, fashion, entertainment. These always make the list. I pull sports into a new column, and I ask the student to tell me what a sports commentator has to do. Students note that sports commentators critique, judge, offer insight, reflect, categorize, offer historical context, evaluate, give background, maybe even give personal history of a player.

That said, I ask if we offer commentary on people. If a friend asks our opinion of her new boyfriend, what do we consider when answering? We take note of their motivation, their accomplishments and experiences. We critique how they look, how they act and speak. I’ll ask my students if we can give these opinions after shaking hands with this new boyfriend on his way out the door after a date. Of course not. We haven’t seen enough of the person. At this point, I can confirm that my students are, in fact, very competent commentators, and I can also praise them for knowing that they must spend time with a subject before considering taking up the role of commentator. I also emphasize that commentators are experts in their field. Former ice-skaters give commentary for figure skating events, not nuclear scientists. I respect the knowledge a professional football player has for his craft, but I’d never ask him to critique a dog show. Students must, then, strive to be experts about the story they analyze. To do so, they must read texts all the way through, and they must read texts more than once. Unprepared students cannot possibly take up a position in the commentator’s booth, offering their opinions to hundreds of thousands of people, and they know this.

The sports metaphor also helps me introduce quote selection. Sports commentators also have to select instant replays where they offer in-depth discussion of one moment of the game. We do the same thing while analyzing literature when we choose a quotation. Sheridan Blau created an assignment called “pointing” where he asks students to “call aloud lines or phrases from the text that move[] us, touch[] us or resonate[]for us in any way” (129). I use this exercise because it helps establish what the good action replays are. Not every line of the text is crucial to the whole. Some are much more important, and some are worth hearing again and again. Most importantly, this assignment forces student to select quotations that are crisp and to the point. We don’t have time to sit down and watch the whole game again, and this makes sense to students because they certainly don’t want to read aloud for more that a few seconds.

After reading lines aloud for a minute, Blau asks his students to copy a line from the text onto the top of the page and spend seven minutes writing about the significance of that one quote. The brief one. I used to have problems convincing students to limit their quotations to the most important bit. Now, I walk around as they are writing, and I can note early on, before they become attached, that they need to pare down to the absolute minimum. After the pointing exercise, most do not have trouble jotting down a brief quotation, and once it looks like most of the students have one, I remind them that the audience is listening to them. This is the moment where if the audience member is at home, the viewer is either going to listen or press mute. This is not the time to say that a figure skater who fell just missed his jump. This isn’t the time to say that Serena Williams just hit the ball over the net. We don’t expect a commentator to tell us what we just saw. We want more, and that’s what I want my students to do. I want them to explain the significance of the instant replay they have just selected.

Lastly, I discuss the importance of signal words. We’ve done two pieces that are central to essay writing: we’ve practiced finding strong proof, and we’ve practiced giving commentary on those quotes. So how do we string them together? Writers need to do two things: offer a transition and establish where the reader is in the text. Sports commentators are lucky most of the time: everyone is watching the game together, and the instant replay is, indeed, instant. There is no need to reference when the play occurred. They do, however, need to focus our attention. We’re probably not going to focus on the play as a whole. Most of the time, the commentator wants us to focus on something specific: the way Serena holds her racquet or the amount of space between Michael Jordan’s feet and the ground. Here I ask my students to be as specific as they can about where they want my attention in the quote they just selected. They might want to focus on one word or point out the significance of an action, maybe even noting how the action is different than the character’s normal behavior. If a sports commentator makes this kind of comparison, perhaps by making a reference to an athlete’s prior performance, they would need to alert the audience that they are stepping outside the moment of the game. This keeps viewers from getting confused. Just as sportscasters need to learn key phrases in order to guide the audience, students need to learn the lexicon associated with literary analysis for the same purpose. I like to make a list of transitions that writers often use to lead readers through analysis: in addition, furthermore, one way, just as, this is evident. These words help students to assemble their evidence and construct their essays.

But Does It Strengthen the Essays?

Confidence is everything. When my students believe that they know how to pick apart someone’s actions, which is really what character analysis is all about, they do not feel so intimidated about putting those ideas on paper. Knowing that they are the commentator, offering evaluation of a character in a story or specializing in another literary device such as irony or symbol, they are aware of their job. It is not a foreign thing anymore.

The semester that I explored this new language and approach, I saw a marked difference in the essays. I have taught Alice Walker’s “Everyday Use” for years and found that students tended to gravitate toward very similar quotes. Now that I focus on commentary in bits and pieces as I work up to the essay, I find that students select stronger quotes. After equating selection of quotes with instant replays, one student focused on Mama’s wearing overalls. She used the quote to support her idea that Mama really is comfortable with who she is because she does not care about fashion. She then compared Mama to Dee who has donned traditional African garb. In comparing the two and how they dressed, she offered a much more in-depth look at the Mama’s self-confidence.

In addition to students making stronger connections, we also have a shared language. It used to be that when a student summarized, I said, “This is summary. You need to analyze here.” To most of my students, that made as much sense as “Verb tense being marked once and once only on the first element of the verb phrase.” Huh? Now when students summarize, I say, “You just told me that Serena hit the ball over the net. I already saw that for myself.” Before I can even offer a suggestion, they hold up their hand to stop me and ask, “Wait, what about this?” Working within the structure of the analytical essay, they are engaging with the text. Even better, I am enjoying their composing process. I get excited, lean in close, and say, “You’re in the commentator’s booth, and 50,000 people are waiting to hear your opinion on this quotation. What are you going to say?”

Works Cited

Blau, Sheridan, D. The Literature Workshop: Teaching Texts and Their Readers. Portsmouth: Heinemann, 2003.

Monseau, Virginia R. Responding to Young Adult Literature. Portsmouth: Boynton/Cook Publishers, 1996.

Maureen Taylor's "The First Lie"

2003-09-01T14:27:00.000-07:00

The first lie I remember telling my parents was a bold one. I was eight, a “good girl”, and I was eager to try out my brand new set of tempera paints. So I went outside and I looked for something that needed painting.

My family lived in a pretty white Colonial, meticulously clean, and antique-filled, but obscured by a miserable looking front yard. According to my parents this was due to the ancient Sequoias that majestically stood on opposite sides of what was supposed to be the lawn. Apparently the tree roots were shallow enough to prevent any potential ground covering from filling in, and so the grass was spotty and brown, at best. The giant juniper bushes in front of the kitchen and den windows downstairs (my mom feared passers-by would peer in and see all that my family was up to if we ever removed them), did not complement the dead lawn effect. And two more giant juniper soldiers stood up straight and tall against the house, guarding the front door and daring anyone to touch the shiny brass knocker. A wobbly brick walkway split the dead grass straight down the middle, and on the sidewalk end of that runway was a step down, flanked by two seat-height pedestals. They were also made of brick, and a neat pattern formed on the top. This was the place, I decided. This was where I’d begin my artwork. I would make the front of our house just a bit more bright and inviting.

So I painted one. I didn’t try to hide it. There I was, right there on Webster Street with plenty of neighborhood traffic, carefully painting each brick square atop the pedestal a different color. It was beautiful, and so much fun! I became engrossed in my work, and I must have been out there for at least an hour, oblivious to everyone and everything going on around me. I wasn’t concerned about keeping my artwork a secret. In fact, I never even considered the possibility that I might be doing something wrong. As far as I knew, my family was still inside, going about their own business.

Later that evening when Mom and Dad were getting ready to go out, my dad called me into his bathroom, which overlooked Webster Street – and the front walk. The bathroom exuded all of the warmth and good smells of my parents: shaving cream, hairspray, cleanliness, and just a hint of that “glass of personality” my father referred to before attending social events.

My sister and I often voluntarily hung out in my parents’ room as they prepared to go out for their typical weekend social or business party. Kate and I would sit on the bed consulting my mother as she labored over her decisions of what went with what, and which earrings she should wear. Well, actually, my sister helped her. I just sat there pondering how difficult it seemed to just go out for such a party. And when I did offer an opinion, the response from my mom was often something like “Really? Don’t you think, though, that this works better?” I would nod obediently. What did I know about fashion? I was just waiting for my dad to come back in from the bathroom so I could watch him tie his tie while he made me laugh with his funny comments.

But on this occasion, my dad didn’t come back into the bedroom. It struck me as odd that he called me in to him. My dad was peering through the curtains that covered the bathroom window (whatever the juniper soldier did not), all clean-shaven and wearing his dress pants. It then occurred to me that maybe I had done something that might have upset him.

“Maureen, do you know who did that?” He was pointing outside. Uh-oh. Why didn’t he call me Mo? He used my real name. I joined him at the window.

“Did what?” I asked innocently, though I knew very well what he was talking about. I didn’t even think about what I was saying.

“Somebody painted the bricks.” He turned to look at me. I continued looking out.

“ Hmmm. I think I saw Sean Bourke out there earlier today.”

My parents did not associate with the Bourkes, even though they lived just across the street and one house over. They were “difficult” neighbors, so Sean Bourke was easy to blame. Certainly any follow-up with his parents would be highly unlikely.

My father looked at me straight in the eye. “Really,” he said. He said it. It was a statement, not a question.

“Yeah,” I continued, a bit too easily, “maybe he did it.”

Again my dad said, “Really.” Then he offered me the chance to come clean: “But you don’t know that he did. Are you sure you don’t know how this happened?”

I looked him straight in the eye, and I knew there was no turning back. I was committed. Shaking my head, I lied, “No.”

“Will you please go wash it off so it doesn’t stain the brick?” This was a direct command, so of course, I did.

I had lied to my father, my hero. I had not wanted to disappoint him by admitting that I, his little girl, his baby, had done something that made him mad. I preferred making him laugh his from-the-gut belly laugh and seeing his eyes sparkle when I sang “The Sun’ll Come Out Tomorrow” just like Annie herself. In order to keep things neat and tidy with my dad and with my family, I was quickly learning that to avoid conflict of any kind, even if it meant lying, was the safest route to take.

Craig Klein's "The Early Bird Club"

2003-09-01T14:26:00.000-07:00

Cock-a-doodle-do, and good morning to you! Welcome to the early bird club. I’m your host, Craig Klein, inviting to join me for the next few paragraphs as I explore and explain some of the joys and drawbacks of being an early riser.

I’ve always gotten up early, as far back as I can recall. When I was a child growing up in rural eastern Kansas, my daily chore was to go to the hen house and fetch the eggs for breakfast. This was always well before dawn. As a child, I reasoned that folks somehow thought that the chickens would be more forgiving of the early hand, one that reached under their nesting bodies before they could muster enough consciousness to peck bare knuckles with the force and rapidity of a jackhammer on concrete. Needless to say, I needed to be especially vigilant as the egg taker, ever wary of the dreaded beak. In other words, I arose both early and alertly.

From that point forward, I would always be up with the sun, down with the moon. To this day, I’m fully awake and rarin’ to go at 5:30 AM. Each day. Every day. The world is such a special place in the wee hours as the sun prepares to make its daily debut.! Birds sing, deer forage, dampness and dew hang on everything outdoors. It’s a delightfully quiet time. You know how sound carries long distances at night because the usual background din of human activity isn’t there...the distant siren or train whistle that seems to float on the ether? Now, imagine that with everything fully lighted. To me, this is how day life must have felt before the coming of overpopulation and the industrial age. Perhaps this is why some still choose to live in isolation. I don’t really know. What I DO understand is that one can be contemplative in a way like no other in and around the dawn.

Of course, there are some practical benefits of getting going early. No traffic whatsoever, easy parking, no waiting lines anywhere. Yes, the morning world is one of ease, and low stress, too. The people you do meet all seem to share something deeper, something visceral, something unspoken. I know what it is. We are drawn to dawn, each and every one of us. We know it. We sense it. Our conversations always seem to center on that which I’ve already described. A new bird someone saw or roses in bloom are equally as exciting to the early riser as any political contest. After all, both are world events, in a manner of speaking.

You must be wondering if there’s a downside, and the answer is yes. Early risers do grow weary in mid-afternoon, frequently needing a cat nap at that time of the day. It’s our concession to the late-rising majority of our species...that which allows us to keep going until 5 PM or later just so we can meaningfully interact with the rest of our kind. As for going out late to dinner or parties, in general we can forget it! I almost never go to an event that starts after 8 PM. The reason is simple. Bedtime’s at 9. My 8 hours of rest always begins by then. I can’t help it; I’m preprogrammed for the long haul.

I’d like to continue, but it’s now 8 AM and the rest of you are waking up and my phone is ringing. There goes my window of composing opportunity for today. But another one will come tomorrow, and each and every day thereafter. By the time most of you reading this open your eyes, I will have already finished writing this piece. You see, the birds are singing. It’s my song!

Sophia Pelafigue's "Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler--Let the Good Times Roll"

2003-09-01T14:25:00.000-07:00

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler--Let the Good Times Roll
by Sophie Pelafigue

“Cher Baby, come here and give me some sugar,” my grandfather Dee Dee would call to me in his thick Cajun-French accent when I stepped off the plane at the New Orleans airport. I would fly from Orange County, California to visit my grandparents in a small town called Grand Cateau, in the heart of the Louisiana bayou. Other than those warm greetings, almost everything seemed strange and unusual where my dad spent the first 18 years of his life.

The St. Charles highway snakes away from the suburban sprawl of New Orleans and into the inhospitable landscape of Cyprus trees, swamps, and sugar plantations. As the road narrows to a one-lane highway near Lafayette, I notice small groups of people sitting on front porches watching the world go by. Having always lived an agrarian lifestyle, Cajun people live life much slower and simpler than what I experienced in the fast paced world of prosperity and the sharper image.

Fullerton, a city about 10 minutes from Disneyland, provided an ideal setting for someone oblivious of traffic, pollution, and uptight attitude problems. As a young girl, I could visit ‘The Greatest Place on Earth’, swim in the ocean on a hot sunny beach, or shop for clothes at any of the 12 malls within a 30-minute drive. Although I enjoyed these pastimes when I lived behind the plastic curtain, they weren’t filled with the colorful characters that made up my family portrait.

My grandfather, the town sheriff, acknowledged everyone he passed in Grand Cateau. He stopped the car to talk (in French) to anyone close enough to the car to hear him. No one seemed rushed or annoyed as he lovingly introduce me as his “petite-fille (granddaughter) from California”. Once when I was eight years old, a woman name Willie Mae smiled, nodded her head, and knowingly said “California? We know what you all do in California.”

Having no idea what she meant as I gave a puzzled look and asked “What?
What do we do in California?” I felt uncomfortable as she just kept shaking her head saying, “uh huh, we know!” Dee Dee didn’t try to explain what she meant but instead told me her family name, who her children were, and how she was related in some way to our family: The Pelafigue’s.

Throughout my elementary school years, my best friend’s name was Jenny Brown. How I wished to have a name that could be said on the first try and have little potential word play. I cursed my unusually difficult last name: Pelafigue. As one official after another would read “Parker, Pierce, Peterson,” there would be the inevitable pause…..and then the attempt “Pel, Pel, Pel a…..oh I don’t know, Sophia.” Usually, I tried to stop them after the first pause and would call out “here!” in order to save myself the agony of name mutilation. While in Grand Cateau, I could rejoice in hearing my name said with the proper accent on the second syllable. I also realized that everyone else’s name was as unusual as mine: Daigle, Petitjan, Pitre, and Jagneaux.

Cajuns center their social gatherings around food. On every special occasion, some family member hosted a crawfish boil (“bol”). As a way to honor our family traditions, we got together on long picnic tables to suck on and eat dozens of pounds of live crustaceans. (There are photos of me as a two-year old baby, sitting next to three laundry baskets of crawfish waiting to be eaten.) Eating from a communal serving place creates a sense of purpose and helped me work through some of the silent pauses that come from not personally knowing countless numbers of family members.

I remember slurping crawfish juice next to my dad’s best friend, Bubba, from high school as he told me, “Yo daddy and me used to fish for crawfish down on the bayou when we were boys. Did he ever tell you about the time when a big water moccasin fell into the boat yo daddy just pulled it right out with a stick. He was never afraid of anything. He is a true Louisiana boy.” Dad left Louisiana (the day after his 18th birthday) to join the Air Force. Although most of his friends and family never moved farther than 20 miles of where they were born, they still viewed him as the first-born, second generation, male Pelafigue. He could do no wrong.

Since I becoming a vegetarian, I have had difficulty time finding food without the essential Cajun ingredient: Meat. Not being overly concerned with cholesterol levels and heart disease, people from the south use some form of meat in everything they cook: boudin (seasoned pork and rice served in a thin sausage casing), andouille (stuffed large intestines), chaudin (stuffed small intestines) chourice (stuffed stomach), tasso (pork or beef jerky), as well as a glob of grease in everything they cook. Of course, I can’t forget to mention the ever-popular Cajun dish, Gumbo, which contains any combination of different meats the chef has laying around the kitchen. I have had more than one confused great auntie stare at me in shock as I delicately tried to tell her I actually chose to eat the Wonder bread and American cheese I found in the fridge, because I would not eat her blessed boudin. Perhaps my unusual choice of diet was part of what Willie Mae talked about when she eagerly inquired about Californian’s alien traits.

In addition to good food and company, most social events include live zydeco music. People of all ages seem to have no inhibitions about getting up to dance, clap, and sing in front of each other. Visiting as a teenager proved particularly painful as I watched with embarrassment as people smacked their legs, hooted out loudly, or jumped up and grabbed a dancing partner. The closest I had been to shaking my booty was to do the limbo at the roller skating rink on Saturday night. I certainly did not gyrate my body in front of people and clap along with smiling musicians with strange instruments.

Fortunately, after my term as a teenager passed, we discovered an outrageous musical experience. Each Saturday, a zydeco breakfast in Breaux Bridge, Louisiana, goes down just outside of Opelousas. The music starts at 9:00 a.m. and does not stop until 1:00p.m. No one leaves his or her table, so you must get there by 8:00 to sit down. After you have eaten, there is no reason to sit down because everyone is up dancing in whatever small space they can find.

Since getting married, I have kept my family name (who would have thought!) and I try to listen to my dad when he details particular experiences of his childhood. Although my grandfather has since passed away and my grandmother now lives in a care home, we continue to go back to New Orleans and Grand Cateau to “laissez les bons temps rouler” every chance we get. I often hear people make endearing comments like “Cher baby” when my daughter Amelia passes and I can hear my grandfather’s sweet voice and see his sparkling smile as I arrived from California years ago. As I watch Amelia boogie freely around on the dance floor, I begin to wonder whether boudin could be made with tofu.

Lee Roscoe Bragg's "Take Only Pictures, Leave Only Footprints"

2003-09-01T14:24:00.001-07:00

Why did the coffee smell so much better? I don't know if it was the crisp, earthy air, or the knowledge that I would soon hear my grandfather patting biscuits into the Dutch oven and dredging the trout in flour before frying. If I hurried I could be the first perched on the rock nearest the fire, enjoying its heat as I savored the delicate flavor of the fish with the airy lightness of his biscuits. My father, the fisherman, had left camp before dawn, treasuring this time on the river most of all. With his morning contribution to breakfast he would sit and sip his coffee until my mother emerged from their tent so they could enjoy the meal together.

I've grown up within this culture; camping, hiking, exploring the wild country. Always careful to leave no trace of our being there - except on film. The pictures never as vibrant, but a useful link to the memory of that breath-taking view from the top of the ridge, or the numbing splash into the glacial lake.

Hauling a 21 foot trailer behind his old Chevrolet pick-up truck was my grandfather's preferred mode of camping. He was never in the trailer, living and cooking outside, but its double-bed was his great joy. My parents camped with a tent while my brother and I slept outdoors on folding, canvas cots. Giving up the cot in exchange for the quiet and solitude found at a primitive campsite was an easy sacrifice, and my high school weekends and summers found me in high altitude at the end of a long, steep trail. Close friendships were formed, a self-reliant group seeking a different sort of entertainment from most of our peers. Sunsets would be celebrated on an overlook saying good night to the world. Dark brought on campfires and singing into the night.

The wilderness has been my extended-ed, my summer school. It has taught me the importance of timing. Set up camp first as thunder showers come on so quickly, hang your supplies high and away unless you want a bear and hunger for dinner, when the sun sets, it's dark. You may be only five miles from the drug store but that's an afternoon's excursion, down the mountain, up the mountain, on foot.

The hike out and back to the drug store raised my usual preparedness to a new level. Whatever the circumstance, I would pack to be ready for it. But who wants to carry it? What to leave behind? Time to prioritize - another wilderness lesson. At first I had to write up a list with approximate weights, drawing a line through that pair of sweat pants that was oh, so comfortable and warm, knowing my jeans would do. My scout leader was horrified to discover that a friend and I had carried this to a new level by sharing as much as possible, including the toothbrush, which was much easier to share than the spoon.

Why go to all this effort? Who wants to sleep on the ground and go without a hot shower, to say nothing of the other bathroom luxuries? Or eat what looks like dried sticks and berries, even after being soaked, and cooked over a stove the size of my coffee mug?

We hikers are so thankful that others ask themselves these questions when they drive by us, tired and filthy at the trail head. Their disdain for discomfort is the only way this rugged land will remain the unpopulated wilderness we enjoy. From their speeding cars they cannot see the craggy granite ridge lines, the chilling waterfalls from the melting snow, or the meadows of wildflowers in riotous color. They think only of their creature comforts, not realizing that it's leaving those comforts behind that rejuvenates and expands the soul.

Of course, I married a backpacker. While I had grown up car-camping, discovering backpacking as a teenager, he was introduced to backpacking through his youth-group. Side-to-side campsites filled with tents, ice-chests, and screaming children were not "real camping". Relating stories of my camping childhood, ending with the declaration that I would not carry my pack, the baby, and the diapers (in and out of camp) he reconsidered. We have a beautiful photograph of me eight months pregnant sitting in a meadow of tall grass with our oldest daughter standing in my embrace. A later photo catches him on a riverbank teaching three little girls how to skip stones. The timer on my camera captured the five of us bundled in jackets, caps, and gloves gathered on a small ledge overlooking the shadowed Tuolomne River with the glowing orange sun sinking behind the surrounding mountains.

The garage shelves hold five backpacks now, as we shop for the sixth. In June we introduced our new son-in-law to backpacking up the Tuolomne River in Yosemite, revisiting our sunset ledge. The first week of August will find us up Redwood Creek swimming in the cool, green pools created by the incredibly sculpted boulders, sitting absolutely still while watching the golden eagle preen himself on a snag across the creek. We will gather to admire the sunset and bid the day good-night knowing that our daughters will be doing the same, wherever they are.

In the back country you only have what you carry. Setting up camp takes but a few minutes. After that it's just you and the beauty, and the peace that surround you. They invite you to sit and look, admire, see...think, dream. Bells don't ring, horns don't honk, neighbors don't yell across the street. You have the time and inspiration to become comfortable with yourself, and regain your perspective. And finally to become aware, once again, of how truly

Anna Moore's "Desert Non-Native"

2003-09-01T14:24:00.000-07:00

When I was young, walking was exercise. Now my partner and I may take walks to get out of the house, but we plot our course based on the gardens we want to revisit and stop long enough at each that we achieve no aerobic exercise. We walk quickly past the houses that are clearly maintained by the mow and blow workers. They are all alike, great expanses of green clipped short as a golf course, flowers contained in perfect rows and catalogued by color. There is no personal touch, no evidence of a gardener. Two blocks up the hill, we tarry at the yard with three kinds of lavender, rubbing the purple blossoms and breathing in the spiciness; stretch our arms wide underneath the grand oak three blocks over; point out new pink geranium in the cottage garden a few blocks south. “Look at this gorgeous yard,” I say, stopping. “I wonder what lucky people live here.” Sun pokes me with an elbow. We are home.

When we first bought our little bungalow, the yard surrounded by a white wrought iron fence was solid St. Augustine, the rugged thick carpet of green that so many of our neighbors adore. It will grow anywhere and spread everywhere, under soil leaching Mulberry trees and across cement. The first project, even before we started refinishing the floors inside, was digging out great expanses of the “perfectly good sod” and starting our cottage garden. For the last three years, we have woven the people in our lives into these beds, a daily reminder of our family friends. Sun’s mom got us started with coreopsis, gaillardia, lambs ears, and iris from her garden. Another friend gave us violets, Mexican Primrose, and even a surprise Japanese anemone. When the glads come up, I phone Michael, who gave us the bulbs when we left Humboldt County. We talk each other through our gardens, feeling connected by bloom and season, successes and disappointments.

Many people in our community stop to talk when I am out working in our cottage garden, and most lament about the yard on the other side of our garage. “Your yard is coming along nicely,” one woman said. “It’s too bad about those neighbors.” I explained that there are no neighbors; the scraggly weed-ridden lot is part of our property and has posed a problem for us, its borders less defined and a plan harder to sketch out. Our gardening cohorts see endless possibilities. “Put in more fruit trees!” “Wouldn’t an arbor be nice?” In the spring we scour the Descanso and Huntington plant sales for suitable natives, salvia and buddleia, plants who will survive with little water. We cannot resist looking at all of the plants, picking up abutilon, a flowering maple, for their lantern-like yellow and orange blossoms. The work we do does not make a dent, and the next trip to Rainbow Nursery brings friendly criticism from the owner. “Your yard looks awful,” he says. “It looks awesome,” I counter. “I walked by there yesterday and it’s all weeds,” he insists. “Don’t count on it changing until September,” I say. I have done my reading and know better than to plant during the inhospitable summer months. We will get busy when winter temperatures will allow new additions to rest and settle in. These additions will not bring instant gratification, but I have also learned that, gardening takes patience, but come spring, we will be rewarded.

For every person excited about our progress, there is another who asks when we are going to rip out the small house and use our land to build a real house. Two blocks east, a lot our size is getting two “real houses.” They must be 2,000 square feet apiece. We can see grand curving staircases through still-empty doorways. I’m sure the family will enjoy their indoor, air-conditioned clean space. They will need air conditioning without the two oaks that used to shade the property. On our own property we have added a trellis and climbing vines to cool our house. Across the alley, the once-a-month mower and weed-eater could care less that this addition cooled our house at least ten degrees last summer. As I prune back the Cecil Brunner, he appears. “I was wondering when you were going to get out here and trim. You know, you can’t let your plants grow out into the alley.” I am speechless and left to wonder if he is the one responsible for the tire track through the thick nasturtiums. Our whole stretch of alley has greened so nicely now that the honeysuckle has covered the six-foot fence, softening the border between us and the Southland attitude.

The neighbor is as unknowing as the electrician who insisted that we needed an outlet for our sink to run a garbage disposal and looked clueless when I said we didn’t need one. “We compost,” I explained, seeing nutrients re-enter the earth. He truly sees garbage. I want to pull him out to the black bin, pry open the door and place some of the dark, rich soil into his hands. What a triumph that handful of dirt is after a year and a half of nothing. “Put in your grass clippings,” Sun’s dad said. “Keep it wet,” her aunt suggested. Then when I started adding last year’s leaf mold project into the mixture, I got heat and moisture and bugs and results! I have created a home for the worms who will keep my plants healthy. In the back of my mind is the memory that Michael trucked in horse manure to speed the composting process. I will have to buy a truck to get my own manure. This does not sound unreasonable, even to my ever-frugal self.

Who is this person? My Saturdays have evolved from spending all day mowing and tending to what lawn we do have to getting through that task as quickly as possible so I can get to planting, pruning, and propagating. Some days I am so muddy from my morning tasks that Sun will not let me in to pee. “Shed the pants and boots or go down to Starbucks,” she teases, eyeing my earth-covered lower half. I have been packing the soil around the new avocado whispering encouragement to the roots. Please feel at home here. Feel the warmth and nutrients pressed against your roots. Press back into our soil. Spread your roots and bring us fruit. Give to this land as we do. We will live off of this land, planting ourselves as we create an ecosystem that feels right to us.

Some days, our neighbors and I arrive home at the same time. We nod at each other as I remove my helmet, but they are already inside when I emerge from the garage. Bag still slung over my shoulder, I snack through the vegetable garden on strawberries or snap peas. I swing through the back gate and check the progress of the creeping thyme and rub a soft ear of chocolate mint to release its smell. I hear the music of finches at play in our mallow hedge. I breathe peace.

Mauro Staiano's "At What Price Testing: Teaching Writing in a Test-Centered Classroom"

2003-05-30T13:41:00.000-07:00

I teach at a failing school. Our broad, student-centered elective program is the envy of visiting teachers and students alike, but I teach at a failing school. Our building trades and HROP auto programs graduate students who have built houses from the ground up and raced stock cars at a national level, but I teach at a failing school. Our music program is the largest in the area and has won national recognition, but I teach at a failing school. We are a National Service Learning School, ensuring our students are valuable, productive members of the community, but I teach at a failing school. The Western Association of Schools and Colleges recently commended the diversity and depth of our integrated, project-based class offerings, but I teach at a failing school. On our campus, the most ethnically and economically diverse student body in the county exists in relative harmony, but I teach at a failing school. We offer a truly impressive range of support services, ranging from after school tutoring and homeless outreach, to a fully certified day care and teen parent program, from gang intervention and conflict and anger management programs, to drug, alcohol, cigarette addiction counseling, and college advising, but I teach at a failing school. Every year we send students to Cal, UCLA, MIT, Wharton, and other top-flight colleges, but I teach at a failing school.

This list represents only a fraction of the ways my school addresses the myriad needs of a diverse campus community. Yet many of the items above address the affective, emotional needs of the student population and none of them is taken into consideration by the state when it evaluates our “success” as educators. Instead the state focuses on California’s two mandated, high-stakes tests. And though our pass rate on one—the California High School Exit Exam (CAHSEE)—ranks with any school in our area and is at about the state average, and our score on the other—the STAR—is consistently in the top third of the state, we are in danger of being officially labeled a “failing school” because our Academic Performance Index (API) score has not continued to rise* ("The API is a school performance measurement system first developed as part of California's 1999 Public Schools Accountability Act. The API is currently calculated using only the Stanford 9 or STAR test) (Great Schools). But whether we manage to avoid the official label or not, the rhetoric of state and federal politicians and the media in general consistently decries the deplorable state of our educational system. Over and over we hear that the state’s schools graduate students who lack basic skills and are not ready for the job market or for college.

The solution of course is a federally mandated program of tests and the threat of the “failing school” label. The rationale behind this is interesting. Though nearly everyone, conservative and liberal alike, agrees education is under-funded and schools lack the resources our students need, the current thinking seems to be that if we tie what little funding there is to test scores and make graduation dependent on a test, both teachers and students will try harder and be more successful despite the lack of resources. Thus the state expects rising API scores in a time of educational crisis where slashed education spending leaves class size reduction, essential support services, art and music programs, and the jobs of thousands of young, energetic teachers specifically trained in the new state standards by the wayside. Yet as the money for these resources evaporates there is money for remediation, test preparation classes, and test preparation materials.

Many of my older colleagues shrug off these turbulent times. This too shall pass, they say. Yet not so long ago, I recall an emphasis on student-centered learning and teachers as “guides on the side,” serious discussions about multi-modal instruction, learning styles and multiple intelligences. Clearly these buzz words of recent pedagogical history represent a political agenda which has now been replaced (much as my colleagues assure me the current agenda will be in time). This is true I’m sure; we live in a changeable world, but can we afford to wait? What I embraced about that outmoded agenda, and what seems to be disappearing from the current climate, is a focus on the needs of the student, a focus on learning. As universities, employers, administrators, and politicians pound the pulpit in favor of ever higher standards and “objective accountability,” what has become of the student? In an ever more standardized system, where do the unique, affective needs of the individual fit in? As an English teacher, and especially as a teacher of writing, I must question the long term ramifications of our current course. Things are changing in our classrooms, and we must ask ourselves whether these changes truly meet the needs, not of bureaucrats, but of the students who count on us to defend their interests as learners. I cannot address the whole school system, or even just my school. Both tasks are daunting in their scope. However, I can track the changes in my own small department and my own classroom, and ask: What effect is the focus on standardized testing having on the teaching of writing and, more importantly, the learning of writing in the high school classroom?

My experience with high school writing instruction began in 1997 when I first stepped on campus as a naive student teacher. Back then the talk was all about standards and benchmarks. The California State Language Art Standards had been announced, the NCTE (National Council of Teachers of English) had released standards, and at the high school teachers had just finished crafting local standards. For a young teacher, this focus on standards was a boon. The list of genres the department taught, in what year and in what course, was codified in a clear and widely accepted set of benchmarks. Ninth graders could be counted on to have studied thesis-driven, analytical writing and beginning research papers. Tenth graders worked through controversial issue papers, persuasive writing, and more formal research papers. Eleventh graders wrote an I-search. In composition classes, students wrote a minimum of five formal papers each semester, taking each through the full writing process, and at the end of the year, these papers were gathered into a portfolio of work demonstrating that the student had met (or failed to meet) the department benchmarks. For a young teacher struggling to keep my head above water anyway, the sheer quantity of paper work and reading was a struggle, but at least I knew what to teach and what the department priorities were.

At this same time, the high school was making two other important changes. Acknowledging the work load of composition teachers at all levels and the attention such a comprehensive writing program requires, our district agreed to cap all composition classes at twenty-five students (down from thirty-three), and, in conjunction with the state, reduced class size to twenty in the ninth grade. To put the magnitude of this shift into perspective, imagine a class of thirty-three students. Each student turns in a first draft essay which an experienced teacher reads and responds to in about ten minutes. This equates to roughly 330 minutes of reading time for just that draft in just that class. Let us assume that, in addition to other forms of response, the teacher reads and grades one more draft of this paper in about half as long as the first draft. This adds another 165 minutes for a total of 495 minutes of reading time. Now, assume that this teacher teaches all five required essays in sophomore composition, a single semester course. That is 2475 minutes of reading time per semester, not including planning classes and grading day-to-day assignments, for this one section of composition. Assuming this same teacher teaches three sections of composition, his or her reading load for these classes alone (not including his or her other two sections or planning and day-to-day grading time) is roughly 7425 minutes or 123 hours and 45 minutes per semester. In other words, responding to papers for these three classes alone would take more than three forty-hour work weeks, every moment of which is outside of class time. In class, this teacher would have approximately 1.7 minutes to spend with each of his or thirty-three young writers each day. At twenty-five to one the numbers are somewhat less dismal. Our hypothetical teacher would now spend only 93 hours and 45 minutes reading formal essays and would have fully 2.2 minutes to spend with each student per day. Even in this smaller class, to accomplish ten-minute writing conferences with each student on a given paper would require four and a half 55-minute periods, assuming each conference was exactly ten minutes and the teacher did not have to take any time out for classroom management. A teacher who wanted to conference with students on each paper would use at least five weeks of the sixteen-week semester on writing conferences alone. Up class size to thirty-three and the same teacher would spend six weeks conferencing. These numbers point to two things. One, constructing and implementing a formal writing program is time consuming even with smaller class size, and two, even in such a program, the individual writer receives far too little one-on-one time with the writing instructor. Clearly, the fewer students in a class, the more attention each student receives, both in class and in response to his/her writing. For this reason small class size is the lynch-pin of a successful writing program.

Another learner-centered practice making inroads in my student-teaching year was integration. All over campus teams of teachers were integrating curriculum, sharing students, and sharing grading. One example had a science teacher, English teacher, and history teacher sharing sixty-six students in back to back periods. In this arrangement composition became a focus in all three classrooms, not just English, and writing standards and instruction could be shared. In those first few years, these supportive teams of teachers multiplied from two teams serving approximately 132 freshman on campus, to at least six teams serving more than 250 students of all levels. The first two teams were focused specifically on providing support for incoming ninth-graders and were intended as a pilot program for integrated teams throughout the freshman year.

My classroom at this time was all about project-based learning and writers workshop. For much of the day I taught in a program integrating English with world history and math for ninth-graders, and for the rest I taught mostly sophomore composition, serving roughly 115 students a day. In my ninth grade classes, my students wrote their benchmark papers as part of larger projects on Black History, Totalitarianism, and the Holocaust. In the tenth-grade classes I designed units around the writing process, moving from one genre to another over the course of the semester, reading and writing in each. In both courses I did not grade student writing, rather I marked papers on a continuum measuring student progress in all facets of writing. The emphasis was on process and growth rather than product. I taught grammar, as the rest of the department did, in context as a revision skill.

Since then, in a span of only five years, the focus of the state and of my department has shifted dramatically. Local standards and benchmarks are a thing of the past, replaced by a fanatical focus on the state standards. This started slowly with the arrival of the state-mandated STAR test, a test most in the department ignored initially. Funding and focus shifted away from local standards and as they were less supported they dwindled. It has been years since any teacher in my department put together portfolios demonstrating our benchmarks (though most of us still save student work in the department office). But nothing took the place of the old benchmarks the department had worked so hard on. Instead, as teachers began to realize the STAR test was here to stay, many struggled against it, rejecting it in principle, but failing to hold fast to any alternative.
The result has been a breakdown in department unity. In a survey of my department, over and over teachers responded that we no longer have an articulated writing program, that the department is “confused” and that whatever standards we have “aren’t checked for anything.” At the same time, pressure from the administration to perform better on the state tests has increased. Almost every teacher surveyed indicated they had felt personal or departmental pressure to alter curriculum to focus more on the tests. Initially this was difficult as the STAR test was not aligned with the state standards, and so teachers rejected the pressure out of hand. However, the more recent STAR tests do reflect the standards, making the pressure, and the tests themselves, less easy to ignore. And, as our test scores stagnate and we get closer and closer to being labeled a ”failing school,” it is only going to get worse.

Another wrinkle is the state mandated graduation exam, the CAHSEE. Given in the tenth grade and repeated seven times if necessary, this test is intended to guarantee a minimum standard of proficiency for all California graduates, including those with learning disabilities and whose first language is something other than English. The pressure on us to prepare our students for this new test is understandably enormous, as even parents have begun to ask what we are doing to prepare their students to pass the test.

As a result of these increased pressures, even the most reluctant in the department have begun to give in. Though the department is still scrambling and without a cohesive vision, several steps have been taken with regards to testing. The department has purchased and is advocating the use of a comprehensive grammar program at the freshman and sophomore levels. So while we no longer have department benchmarks for writing, we do have them for discrete grammar instruction and much time is now spent teaching parts of speech, phrases, clauses, and punctuation. Most teachers in the department now spend at least a week or two explicitly practicing for the state tests. Most do practice tests for the CAHSEE and some do extensive “test prep” units including general strategies for standardized testing.

In my classroom, the results of these new pressures are significant and similar to what I know has happened in my colleagues’ classes as well. I spend hours and hours teaching grammar to students unmotivated to learn it, but who will quietly do their drills because they know it is “good for them” and because they fear the exit exam. The result has been that while they have consistently improved in spotting errors in sentences on the board and in worksheets, the grammar in their own writing has improved very little. This jibes with the tests though, as the STAR test has no writing but lots of discrete grammar questions, and the CAHSEE, while it has some writing, also focuses primarily on multiple choice, error-recognition questions. I spent two weeks this year doing practice tests and teaching test-focused writing, warning my students about such test pitfalls as straying away from the prompt and messy handwriting. In addition to the time spent on this new curriculum, there is the time taken on the tests themselves. English teachers lose roughly one week of teaching time every year to the STAR tests, which are given in every grade but twelfth, and face the disruption of several more weeks due to testing in other subjects. Sophomores face an additional week of CAHSEE testing.

This new curriculum and the time spent testing is eating into the already limited time teachers have to address the rigorous state standards. Though my students felt prepared for the tests, in fact most found them easy, much of value has been lost from my curriculum and my coverage of the standards is surface at best. I have not taught a proper poetry unit in two years, I have dropped one formal paper in each semester, and there is less time for multiple-draft writing. Though my class size has stayed about the same, the amount of authentic writing my students do has suffered. The focus has shifted from process to product in many ways as well, thanks to an increased emphasis on timed writing. The same is true in my colleagues’ classrooms as well.

Yes, much has changed in the past five years, but of course much is sure to change in the next five years as well. Two current trends are sure to shape the writing classroom in the near future. The first is the economy and the second is a continuing drive for “accountability” that shows no sign of slowing. The plunging stock market, recent energy crisis, and increased homeland security spending have sent the California state budget into a tailspin with deficits predicted in the $38.2 billion range (Lucas). Though the specifics of next year’s budget are still uncertain, everyone knows the cuts in public education spending will be deep; the only question is how deep. As the state’s schools plan for crippling budget cuts, they are slashing staff and “nonessential services” and programs wherever they can. At my high school, these changes will primarily come in the form of fewer teachers and increased class size. Though the political pressure is high to save class size reduction in grades K through 3, less is being said at the state level about funding ninth grade class size reduction (Posnick-Goodwin 9). Though high school class size reduction has never been fully funded, what funds there were seem to have evaporated, leaving schools little incentive to maintain small ninth grade classes. In planning next year’s schedule at my high school, freshman English classes started at twenty to one, quickly moved to twenty-five to one, and seem to have settled at twenty-eight to one for next year though they could still go as high as thirty-three to one.
Remember that these are composition classes. Using the formula established before, this teacher’s reading load has just increased from five hours per paper assigned to a class of twenty to seven hours in a class of twenty-eight. Sadly, there is no reason to assume class size increases will stop at ninth grade. Our twenty-five to one cap on composition classes has always been a “courtesy” cap. As funding pressures increase over the next few years, many in the department predict the administration will soon throw courtesy to the wind in favor of cheaper, more “efficient,” classes of thirty-three to one. In addition, the tight schedules and reduced staffing required by the current budget have nearly eliminated our once thriving integrated programs, denying student and teachers another valuable avenue of writing support.

All this is only exacerbated by the continued pressure to succeed on state tests despite budget woes. Contrary to the hopes of many in the educational system, state tests have not faded away. The federal government recently passed the No Child Left Behind Act (NCLB), requiring annual reading and math testing in grades three through eight and at least once in high school (NEA). The law also sets proficiency targets, declaring that all students will be “proficient” by 2014 (NEA). Further complicating the issue is that, though President Bush promised to fully fund NCLB, federal government funding is $8 billion short of authorized levels this year and Bush’s proposed allocation for 2004 is $11 billion short (NEA). The political opposition to NCLB has been fierce as state budgets languish and it has become obvious that few schools, if any, will meet the proficiency target. In California, state officials are backtracking on implementing the CAHSEE this year because it will tragically affect graduation rates as forty-eight percent of this year’s graduating students still have not passed the test (Exit Exam).

Yet the state assures us the test will survive, and the pressure to test often and test well is still there, so in a time of dire budget crisis, there is money for testing and testing support. As class size goes up in writing classes and support programs are cut across the curriculum, newly created classes focused specifically on remediation for the CAHSEE in math and English are still capped at twenty. As more and more class time is spent on test prep and grammar, less and less time will be spent on reading and writing. In my own classes, I can see a shift from broad, open-ended compositions to sentence level writing and even more timed writing. If school funding, graduation, and the evaluation of my performance as a teacher are to be based primarily on tests with little writing (none of it authentic or meaningful), tests that focus on error recognition, and not revision, how can I do otherwise? Parents and legislators do not want to read portfolios; they want to see test scores.

I admit the pressures imposed by the testing movement are not all negative. Though lofty, the state language arts standards are worthy targets by and large, and I am happy testing pressures seem to be bringing some focus to my department which has been set adrift since the loss of local benchmarks. Next year the department will embark on a project to articulate our curriculum and align all courses clearly and concretely with the state standards. And many teachers point out the tests encourage students and teachers alike to focus on admittedly less interesting but under-addressed “basic” skills often lacked by even our brightest students. Certainly learning to write beautiful, coherent, grammatical sentences is a goal any writing teacher can support. And yes, the CAHSEE can and does act as a carrot for many reluctant students who fear not graduating (though once students pass, or come to believe they will never pass, this incentive evaporates entirely, leading many to say the CAHSEE actually decreases motivation). And clearly testing alone cannot be blamed for all the woes affecting today’s schools. The economic struggles of the schools simply mirror those of the nation.

But the fact remains, in the rush for greater accountability, we are leaving the learner behind. I fear supportive classrooms where students have the time to write and revise are disappearing, replaced by frantic test-focused writing and grammar drills. Class sizes are increasing, and testing and test-prep eat into valuable classroom time, leaving overworked teachers with less time to respond to the writing needs of more students. Invaluable integrated classes and support programs that encourage and nurture student writers are being replaced by test-focused remediation and a high pressure, high stakes environment. Ironically, as the pressure increases to leave no child behind, we risk leaving more behind than ever.

For as long as I have been around schools, people have trumpeted the failures of public education, but honestly this has never really bothered me because the definition of this failure is imposed from the outside, leveled bluntly and often ignorantly at the schools in general. I have always been able to look around my room and my school and see the concrete growth in my students as young writers. I have never needed politicians to tell me my students are learning. It is only now as testing and budgetary pressures encroach upon my ability to foster this learning, that I fear I soon really will teach at a failing school.

Works Cited

The Academic Performance Index (API): Ten Things a Parent Should Know. GreatSchools.net. 4 November 2001 <http://www.greatschools.net/cgi-bin/showarticle/ca/72/improve>;.

Arcata High School. GreatSchools.net. 20 May 2003 <http://www.greatschools.net/cgi-bin/ca/ach_more/1047#cahsee>;.

Eureka High School. GreatSchools.net. 20 May 2003 <http://www.greatschools.net/cgi-bin/ca/ach_more/1007#cahsee>;.

“Is state ready for exit exams?” The San Francisco Chronicle. SFGate.com. 16 March 2003 <http://www.sfgate.com/cgibin/article.cgi?file=/chronicle/archive/2003/03/16/ED241423.DTL>;.

Lucas, Greg. “Deficits predicted for state. Davis' budget would balance for a year then dive, says report.” The San Francisco Chronicle. SFGate.com. 20 May 2003 <http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/chronicle/archive/2003/05/20/BA260706.DTL>;.

National Education Association (NEA). "The Law: What It Is, And What It Isn't." NEA Today May 2003: 22-24.

Posnick-Goodwin, Sherry. "Don't Turn Back the Clock, Smaller Class Sizes Work." California Educator May 2003: 6-11.