Sunday, January 30, 2005
teacher stuff
Someday, I'll find a way to post all my education stuff online. In the meantime, if there are teachers out there who need materials on the following units, I have materials that I have created on the following units/topics:
The Friends, by Rosa Guy - complete unit
Romeo and Juliet - unit exam, tests on each act, activities, class discussion questions
Catcher in the Rye - discussion questions
Lord of the Flies - discussion questions, quizzes, unit exam
The Count of Monte Cristo - discussion questions
Epics - power point presentation on archetypes and the hero journey. Unit exams on The Odyssey (parts I and II)
Poetry - worksheets/activities on allusion (uses the world wide web), diction, and alliteration.
(This unit is in progress - more will be added in the next few weeks)
Comprehension Quiz (i.e check to make sure they stayed awake) on the film Il Postino. (I show this film when I start the unit on poetry)
Worksheet on the short story, "The Yellow Wallpaper".
I am putting together a lesson involving the movie Maria Full Of Grace that will involve a worksheet on character analysis/dynamic characters and instructions/rubric for a definition/classification essay. It should be done in a few weeks.
If anyone wants files of any of this stuff (I teach 9th/10th grade), email me. I'm happy to share anything I make.
The Friends, by Rosa Guy - complete unit
Romeo and Juliet - unit exam, tests on each act, activities, class discussion questions
Catcher in the Rye - discussion questions
Lord of the Flies - discussion questions, quizzes, unit exam
The Count of Monte Cristo - discussion questions
Epics - power point presentation on archetypes and the hero journey. Unit exams on The Odyssey (parts I and II)
Poetry - worksheets/activities on allusion (uses the world wide web), diction, and alliteration.
(This unit is in progress - more will be added in the next few weeks)
Comprehension Quiz (i.e check to make sure they stayed awake) on the film Il Postino. (I show this film when I start the unit on poetry)
Worksheet on the short story, "The Yellow Wallpaper".
I am putting together a lesson involving the movie Maria Full Of Grace that will involve a worksheet on character analysis/dynamic characters and instructions/rubric for a definition/classification essay. It should be done in a few weeks.
If anyone wants files of any of this stuff (I teach 9th/10th grade), email me. I'm happy to share anything I make.
Labels: save as draft
Saturday, January 29, 2005
ice storm
If you are stuck inside today, you can always try to escape
the crimson room. It's addictive. You have been warned.
UPDATE:
I will post answers to people's requests for help in the comments. Don't read if you don't want to know.
And if you can't access the website on the memo from your server - the code you find is 1994
Labels: save as draft
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
obedience
Tonight, my daughter watched The Young Black Stallion for the first time. My son refused to watch it because it was a horse movie. He had a similar reaction to the movie Spirit when it came out.
No amount of argument can convince him that horse movies are not girly in the worst possible way. He has a simple equation, and I have no idea where it came from:
Horse Stories = Stuff Girls Like = Stupid
My daughter, taking a cue from her beloved older brother, did not want to watch the movie. I knew she would love it, because unlike the original, this movie was about a young Arabian girl. When the movie was over, my daughter came to tell me how wonderful it was. I asked her if the girl won the race at the end.
"Yes", Lily said, "But she disobeyed." I could tell that Lily was concerned.
"Did she disobey because they said that girls were not allowed?", I asked.
Lily nodded.
I told her that she has permission to disobey if anyone ever tells her she can't do something just because she is a girl.
This was a simple answer to something that is very complicated, but it seemed the right thing to say to a six-year old.
No amount of argument can convince him that horse movies are not girly in the worst possible way. He has a simple equation, and I have no idea where it came from:
Horse Stories = Stuff Girls Like = Stupid
My daughter, taking a cue from her beloved older brother, did not want to watch the movie. I knew she would love it, because unlike the original, this movie was about a young Arabian girl. When the movie was over, my daughter came to tell me how wonderful it was. I asked her if the girl won the race at the end.
"Yes", Lily said, "But she disobeyed." I could tell that Lily was concerned.
"Did she disobey because they said that girls were not allowed?", I asked.
Lily nodded.
I told her that she has permission to disobey if anyone ever tells her she can't do something just because she is a girl.
This was a simple answer to something that is very complicated, but it seemed the right thing to say to a six-year old.
Labels: save as draft
beauty
my friend kelly makes and sells beautiful art. you can see it here
not long ago, the first painting i adopted found a friend:
not long ago, the first painting i adopted found a friend:
Labels: save as draft
another reason to live in an old house
Monday, January 24, 2005
wonder::twins
My husband gave me two DVDs for Christmas: Escape to Witch Mountain and Lost in Translation. I love both of these movies because, to me at least, they are about the same type of relationship. I have been thinking lately about friends and family - specifically about how friends can become like family (sometimes even more so than "real" family). One relationship I have always wished for is that of a twin brother. I never wanted a twin sister: a mirror image that would dress like me and confuse my name. Instead, I wanted a brother.
Someone who would like the backside of the coin that was me - different, but still, somehow, cut from the same mold.
A sibling without the rivalry.
An encourager.
A shelter.
The first chapter books I ever read were the Raggedy Ann and Andy adventures by Johnny Gruelle. The best thing about Raggedy Andy was that he always had Raggedy Ann's back. She seemed safer with him around. I don't remember if it was Raggedy Andy that made me long for a brother, but I know that my fascination with the idea of a twin only grew from there.
When the first Sanrio carts began to appear in the girl's section of department stores, they featured only two characters: the Little Twin Stars and Hello Kitty. Hello Kitty went on to become the cornerstone of the Sanrio company, but the Little Twin Stars were eventually replaced by a little green frog, and they slowly faded into obscurity. I never really understood the appeal of Hello Kitty, but I loved the Little Twin Stars. I collected everything I could: the palm-sized plastic case with a miniature pencil and set of tiny notes and envelopes, the toiletries kit with its washcloth and snap-on toothbrush cover. I had Little Twin Stars stationary, and I used it to compose poems and stories about the pink girl and blue boy. I knew there was something perfect about them.
In elementary school, I woke up early every Saturday morning to watch Super Friends, because I was in love with the idea of the Wonder Twins. I would sit on our yellow shag carpet, with my folding metal Dukes of Hazzard T.V. tray and bowl of Lucky Charms over my knees, and watch my beloved Wonder Twins escape danger and save the world. Jayna and Zan had matching purple wonder suits and the power to transform (Jayna could become any animal and Zan could become any form of water). When Superman and Wonderwoman needed help, the twins would smack their purple gloved fists together with a battle cry of "Wonder Twin Powers Activate!", and help save the day. Afterwards, I would beg my little brother to play Wonder Twins with me - but he never really understood the game. I always had to help him figure out what to transform into, which defeated the whole point of pretending to be a Wonder Twin. A twin brother would have known what form of water would compliment my choice of animal in order to help save the day. I would not have had to explain myself.
At some point, I stopped trying to find someone to play with me, and I started just imagining the stories in my head. I talked to an imaginary brother. I played in the woods, ran like I was being chased, and always kept my invisible twin at my side. I would hold my arm out and imagine that my brother was holding my hand as we escaped together. My favorite movie was Escape to Witch Mountain. More than anything, I wished that I could have a twin like Tony - someone that was a fellow castaway, trying to find a way/place to belong. I loved the idea that they could talk to each other without saying a word. They heard each other in a way deeper than words. They just listened, and they understood.
A confession:
I don't think I have had a single friend since then that I have not tried to send silent, telepathic messages to - just in case. Perhaps this makes me a complete loser, but I can't help thinking that one day, it just might work.
Sunday, January 23, 2005
Attention All Atlanta-Area Bloggers
This Wednesday (1/26), the brilliant Douglas Coupland will be in Atlanta for a lecture/reading.
8:00 pm. Tickets are 10$ and avaliable at Outwrite bookstore. Anyone want to meet up beforehand for coffee?
8:00 pm. Tickets are 10$ and avaliable at Outwrite bookstore. Anyone want to meet up beforehand for coffee?
Labels: save as draft
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
luck (for daniel)
"I'd never yell 'Good Luck' at anybody. It sounds terrible, when you think about it."
-Holden Caufield
Not long ago, I told my daughter about lucky rabbit's feet. I forget how the conversation started, but it probably began with her wanting to know about weird things from my childhood. My kids view my past with a mixture of horror and awe. I grew up without most of the staples of kid existence that they take for granted: computers, videos, cable t.v. They can't believe that I played with toys like Speak and Spell and Baby Alive - toys that did "fun" things like spell words and need diaper changes. They are amazed that, instead of watching videos (or DVDs), I listened to records that featured the sound effect of Tinkerbell's tinkling magic wand to tell me when to turn the page in the accompanying storybook. They want to hear these stories again and again. Was there really a video game called Pong? they ask. Yes, I tell them, and it was lame. There was no Nickelodeon or Nintendo. I could not fall asleep to The Sound of Music every night, because it only came on television once a year. My kids shake their heads in disbelief. They tell me they are so glad they were not alive back then. The stories are my version of "walking to school ten miles in the snow" stories. In my house, they are the most requested type of tales.
So, my daughter was sitting and talking to me about a week ago and she asked me to tell her about something else weird that existed when I was a kid. Lily is very tenderhearted and she loves animals, so I figured that the story of lucky rabbit's feet would seem like an especially terrible entry in my expanding canon of sad tales of a nineteen seventies childhood.
I told her that when I was a kid, everybody wanted to own a lucky rabbit's foot. All the cool kids had them; they were an essential accessory of elementary-age childhood. I saved up my allowance to buy one, and I was thrilled when it came time to go to the mall and pick out the color I wanted. Lucky rabbit's feet were like soft little bits of fur that had been dipped in colored dye that came in all the colors of the rainbow: bright purple, royal blue, hot pink, shamrock green. The feet were attached to a little metal key chain top that could hook onto a backpack or belt loop. I loved my lucky rabbit's foot. It was so soft, it almost felt real. The only detail about the charm that bothered me was the little spike-like things that were hidden under the fur. They seemed out of place on my magical purple fur charm. I turned the foot over to examine the spikes more closely. I pushed the fur away and realized, with horror, that my lucky rabbit's foot was an actual rabbit's paw! Someone had chopped off a bunny's paw, dipped it in dye, and stuck in on a stupid key chain! I was upset. I went to my mother and demanded an explanation. Had they killed the rabbit just to get its feet? My mother told me that she was pretty sure the rabbits were already dead of old age; but I was in the gifted program, and I didn't really buy it. I had been to the store. I had seen the display hung with rows of colored rabbit feet. How many dead rabbits could the lucky rabbit feet people just happen to stumble across? Not that many. I was sure of it.
My daughter listened to my story with wide eyes. By the end, I could tell that she was trying not to cry. I felt awful. The rabbit story was just too much. I promised her that they do not make lucky rabbit's feet anymore because there are laws against cruelty to animals now. I tried to lighten the mood by telling her that they also sold us "Mexican Jumping Beans", which were just beans with worms in them. She smiled at the idea of me being stupid enough to spend my hard-earned allowance on beans with worms inside. I'm glad I did not live back then, she said.
Then, last weekend, I went to my favorite thrift store. Before I left, Lily made me promise to bring her home anything I saw that she might like. I agreed, and figured that I'd find a book or Barbie horse to bring home. Instead, I found an old, shrink- wrapped display. It was a faded square of cardboard with the words "Lucky Rabbits Feet" glued to the top and a collection of colored rabbit's feet circling a small box of miniature playing cards. (I'm assuming the cards were there to demonstrate the sort of thing the owner of the feet could expect good luck to help with?) The display had a price of $1.01 written in grease pencil across the back. I hesitated for a second, but I decided to buy them for Lily.
When I got home, she met me at the door and asked if I found anything for her. I told her that I had, but that I did not want her to be upset about it. I assured her that what I found was very old, and the rabbits were already dead, and the people that killed them were probably in jail now. I pulled out the display. She was not upset; she was amazed. All that good luck in one place. She took all the colored feet off of the display and carried them around. She lovingly washed them with baby shampoo and laid them on a paper towel to dry in the sun. She put them in a Ziplock bag and kept them on the table while she ate dinner.
Before she went to bed, she told me that I could have one to take to school. And, she added in a whisper, I want to put one on my backpack.
Luck is funny like that.
a whole lotta luck
-Holden Caufield
Not long ago, I told my daughter about lucky rabbit's feet. I forget how the conversation started, but it probably began with her wanting to know about weird things from my childhood. My kids view my past with a mixture of horror and awe. I grew up without most of the staples of kid existence that they take for granted: computers, videos, cable t.v. They can't believe that I played with toys like Speak and Spell and Baby Alive - toys that did "fun" things like spell words and need diaper changes. They are amazed that, instead of watching videos (or DVDs), I listened to records that featured the sound effect of Tinkerbell's tinkling magic wand to tell me when to turn the page in the accompanying storybook. They want to hear these stories again and again. Was there really a video game called Pong? they ask. Yes, I tell them, and it was lame. There was no Nickelodeon or Nintendo. I could not fall asleep to The Sound of Music every night, because it only came on television once a year. My kids shake their heads in disbelief. They tell me they are so glad they were not alive back then. The stories are my version of "walking to school ten miles in the snow" stories. In my house, they are the most requested type of tales.
So, my daughter was sitting and talking to me about a week ago and she asked me to tell her about something else weird that existed when I was a kid. Lily is very tenderhearted and she loves animals, so I figured that the story of lucky rabbit's feet would seem like an especially terrible entry in my expanding canon of sad tales of a nineteen seventies childhood.
I told her that when I was a kid, everybody wanted to own a lucky rabbit's foot. All the cool kids had them; they were an essential accessory of elementary-age childhood. I saved up my allowance to buy one, and I was thrilled when it came time to go to the mall and pick out the color I wanted. Lucky rabbit's feet were like soft little bits of fur that had been dipped in colored dye that came in all the colors of the rainbow: bright purple, royal blue, hot pink, shamrock green. The feet were attached to a little metal key chain top that could hook onto a backpack or belt loop. I loved my lucky rabbit's foot. It was so soft, it almost felt real. The only detail about the charm that bothered me was the little spike-like things that were hidden under the fur. They seemed out of place on my magical purple fur charm. I turned the foot over to examine the spikes more closely. I pushed the fur away and realized, with horror, that my lucky rabbit's foot was an actual rabbit's paw! Someone had chopped off a bunny's paw, dipped it in dye, and stuck in on a stupid key chain! I was upset. I went to my mother and demanded an explanation. Had they killed the rabbit just to get its feet? My mother told me that she was pretty sure the rabbits were already dead of old age; but I was in the gifted program, and I didn't really buy it. I had been to the store. I had seen the display hung with rows of colored rabbit feet. How many dead rabbits could the lucky rabbit feet people just happen to stumble across? Not that many. I was sure of it.
My daughter listened to my story with wide eyes. By the end, I could tell that she was trying not to cry. I felt awful. The rabbit story was just too much. I promised her that they do not make lucky rabbit's feet anymore because there are laws against cruelty to animals now. I tried to lighten the mood by telling her that they also sold us "Mexican Jumping Beans", which were just beans with worms in them. She smiled at the idea of me being stupid enough to spend my hard-earned allowance on beans with worms inside. I'm glad I did not live back then, she said.
Then, last weekend, I went to my favorite thrift store. Before I left, Lily made me promise to bring her home anything I saw that she might like. I agreed, and figured that I'd find a book or Barbie horse to bring home. Instead, I found an old, shrink- wrapped display. It was a faded square of cardboard with the words "Lucky Rabbits Feet" glued to the top and a collection of colored rabbit's feet circling a small box of miniature playing cards. (I'm assuming the cards were there to demonstrate the sort of thing the owner of the feet could expect good luck to help with?) The display had a price of $1.01 written in grease pencil across the back. I hesitated for a second, but I decided to buy them for Lily.
When I got home, she met me at the door and asked if I found anything for her. I told her that I had, but that I did not want her to be upset about it. I assured her that what I found was very old, and the rabbits were already dead, and the people that killed them were probably in jail now. I pulled out the display. She was not upset; she was amazed. All that good luck in one place. She took all the colored feet off of the display and carried them around. She lovingly washed them with baby shampoo and laid them on a paper towel to dry in the sun. She put them in a Ziplock bag and kept them on the table while she ate dinner.
Before she went to bed, she told me that I could have one to take to school. And, she added in a whisper, I want to put one on my backpack.
Luck is funny like that.
a whole lotta luck
Labels: save as draft
Saturday, January 15, 2005
friends and family
Lily was upset when it was time for her new friends to leave. She wanted to ride in their car. I think she was ready to join them forever. I explained that they needed to go and visit their "other" family.
I realized that what I said sounded weird, so I explained. "It's time for them to visit the family they are actually related to".
I always attend the traditional worship service at church, because I like the old hymns. More accurately, I like some of the old hymns. I miss them in contemporary worship. Traditional hymns often mention The Family Of God. These hymns are not my favorites. I've been known to snicker at them - especially the one that rhymes "God" with "sod" (as in "together we walk the sod" (or something to that effect).
As a minister's daughter, the Family of God concept felt like a punishment. It was usually brought up to make me feel guilty. I needed to be nice to the kid that was mean to me, because she was my sister in Christ. If I really did not like someone, my mother took me aside with a twist of the arm and informed me that I had better learn to like them, because they were a part of my Family of God, and I was going to spend all eternity with them. I wanted to protest that I did not think the class bully was a Christian, but it was no use.
My mother loved to entertain, and our house was always full of "company". I hated company. I had to be on my best, preacher's daughter behavior, and I fought to quiet the resentment and violence of my heart. I didn't want those intrusive, demanding strangers in my house. No way. I fantasized about standing on the table in the middle of the carefully prepared company dinner and screaming every swear word I could think of. They could just kick me right out of The Family of God. See if I cared.
We live mostly fractured lives. At least, I live a mostly fractured life. Family is a loaded word. Many of us started wanting to leave our families in adolescence (or even before). I started playing at running away before I turned six. In my fantasies, I was always an orphan. I built a wall between myself and other people. I did not want to be obligated to them. I did/do not trust them to accept me the way I really was/am.
Now, when I hear the word "family", I think of my immediate family - my "own" family (husband, son, daughter). People who know me, and love me despite my really bad qualities. On many days, this is enough. But still, underneath the surface, there is an unspoken emptiness and longing - an awareness that there must be something more that I have missed. Something I have not found.
I have always longed for these things: a sister, a twin brother, to know what it feels like to be mothered.
Last summer, I told my best friend that sometimes I feel haunted by this longing to know what it feels like to be mothered. Since then, I have realized that I do know what it means to be mothered. I know, without a doubt, that my friends have mothered me. And although I do not have a sister or a twin brother, I have known moments where I experienced that type of connection. I spent most of my life guarding and protecting myself against my warped concept of family, but I am slowly learning to open my heart, to trust people and love them without hesitancy. For the first time, I'm actually glad to sing songs about The Family of God.
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Thursday, January 13, 2005
losing my distance
The trouble with judgment is that it is difficult to remain judgmental once you actually meet people that belong in the categories you don't like. Maybe this is part of the reason that many (most) churches remain segregated by race, social class, sexual orientation, political affiliation, worship style, etc. It's easier that way. When we create a "they", it's easier to feel like we are okay and they are not. Once you get to know them, it gets much more complicated.
One group of people I have always felt comfortable hating is teenage mothers. Years of infertility hardened my heart and made me bitter. I looked at the unmarried and pregnant with contempt. I believed they were stupid and selfish. I mean, how hard can it be to use birth control? In some way, I hated God for even allowing them to get pregnant when so many "good", married women had difficulty conceiving. If I heard about a baby shower for an unwed mother, I was appalled. Gifts for the innocent baby were okay - but in my opinion, the pregnant girl did not deserve a party. It sent a bad message; it meant that we approved of her irresponsible behavior. I believe(d) that a child needs two, married, adult parents and a stable home. Anyone who would bring a baby into this world and give it less didn't deserve my sympathy or support. I did not care about statistics that said that most children born to teen mothers are fathered by adults. I still blamed the girls, who ought to have kept their legs shut.
But then, I never knew any unwed mothers. I knew of them: the daughter of friends of my parents, or the girl that lived on the floor beneath me in the dorm. I kept my distance though. They made me angry. Just hearing about them made me angry.
At the beginning of this year, one of my former students came to my classroom to let me know that she was pregnant. She had been one of my favorite students. I found myself working to get her prenatal care, and I brought in maternity clothes for her to wear. When she came by my classroom with her sonogram pictures, I smiled and congratulated her on her daughter. She was nervous about raising a girl, it seemed like a son would be easier. I found myself encouraging her. Right before she left for maternity leave, she knocked on my door to say goodbye. I hugged her, wished her luck, and made her promise to bring her baby to school to show me. As soon as she left, my ninth graders started making comments about her pregnancy - asking how old she was, and saying she must be stupid. I told them that, actually, she is a very intelligent girl who just made a mistake.
This semester, I have a tenth grade student who has a six week old son. In her diagnostic essay, she wrote about him and how much he means to her. She wrote that, although he was not planned, he has changed her life. She talked about how she goes home and reads to him, and that she think he loves to hear her read because she used to read to him all the time when he in the womb. She shared about how hard it is to leave him every morning, how she thinks about him all day and can't wait to get home to hold him again.
Today, I asked her to stay after class for a minute. I told her that I wanted her to know that I will do whatever she needs me to do to help her make it through the semester. I understood that she might need to be absent sometimes, and I was willing let her make up what she missed and give her assignments in advance whenever possible. I wanted her to know that I really respect and admire her decision to come back to school. I told her that I read her diagnostic essay, and I handed her a bag of board books and picture books that my children have outgrown. "Since you like to read to your baby", I said. I reached in the bag and pulled out a copy of Operating Instructions by Anne Lamott. "This one is for you," I told her. "It is the only honest book about motherhood that I have ever read."
She smiled and told me that she loves books. She said that, more than anything, she wants to buy a bookshelf for her son's room. She wants him to learn how to read. She said that she knows he will love to read, because every day, she watches Clifford the Big Red Dog on PBS with him, and she can already tell that he loves it.
I smiled. "You're a good mom", I said.
I meant it.
One group of people I have always felt comfortable hating is teenage mothers. Years of infertility hardened my heart and made me bitter. I looked at the unmarried and pregnant with contempt. I believed they were stupid and selfish. I mean, how hard can it be to use birth control? In some way, I hated God for even allowing them to get pregnant when so many "good", married women had difficulty conceiving. If I heard about a baby shower for an unwed mother, I was appalled. Gifts for the innocent baby were okay - but in my opinion, the pregnant girl did not deserve a party. It sent a bad message; it meant that we approved of her irresponsible behavior. I believe(d) that a child needs two, married, adult parents and a stable home. Anyone who would bring a baby into this world and give it less didn't deserve my sympathy or support. I did not care about statistics that said that most children born to teen mothers are fathered by adults. I still blamed the girls, who ought to have kept their legs shut.
But then, I never knew any unwed mothers. I knew of them: the daughter of friends of my parents, or the girl that lived on the floor beneath me in the dorm. I kept my distance though. They made me angry. Just hearing about them made me angry.
At the beginning of this year, one of my former students came to my classroom to let me know that she was pregnant. She had been one of my favorite students. I found myself working to get her prenatal care, and I brought in maternity clothes for her to wear. When she came by my classroom with her sonogram pictures, I smiled and congratulated her on her daughter. She was nervous about raising a girl, it seemed like a son would be easier. I found myself encouraging her. Right before she left for maternity leave, she knocked on my door to say goodbye. I hugged her, wished her luck, and made her promise to bring her baby to school to show me. As soon as she left, my ninth graders started making comments about her pregnancy - asking how old she was, and saying she must be stupid. I told them that, actually, she is a very intelligent girl who just made a mistake.
This semester, I have a tenth grade student who has a six week old son. In her diagnostic essay, she wrote about him and how much he means to her. She wrote that, although he was not planned, he has changed her life. She talked about how she goes home and reads to him, and that she think he loves to hear her read because she used to read to him all the time when he in the womb. She shared about how hard it is to leave him every morning, how she thinks about him all day and can't wait to get home to hold him again.
Today, I asked her to stay after class for a minute. I told her that I wanted her to know that I will do whatever she needs me to do to help her make it through the semester. I understood that she might need to be absent sometimes, and I was willing let her make up what she missed and give her assignments in advance whenever possible. I wanted her to know that I really respect and admire her decision to come back to school. I told her that I read her diagnostic essay, and I handed her a bag of board books and picture books that my children have outgrown. "Since you like to read to your baby", I said. I reached in the bag and pulled out a copy of Operating Instructions by Anne Lamott. "This one is for you," I told her. "It is the only honest book about motherhood that I have ever read."
She smiled and told me that she loves books. She said that, more than anything, she wants to buy a bookshelf for her son's room. She wants him to learn how to read. She said that she knows he will love to read, because every day, she watches Clifford the Big Red Dog on PBS with him, and she can already tell that he loves it.
I smiled. "You're a good mom", I said.
I meant it.
Labels: save as draft
will post tonight
sorry for the longer-than-usual absence. i've been crazy busy adjusting to the new semester/students and recovering from a bad sinus infection. thanks for all the comments and encouragement.
in the meantime, my dear friend kelly sent me a link to a beautiful little art program a while ago. the program lets you paint pictures and then email the files to friends - who then get to watch the picture get "painted" before their eyes. it's like a tiny bit of magic. so, if you are bored today (or - if you have restless kids - this little program can occupy them for hours), go paint pictures for your friends. it will make them smile.
magic artpad
in the meantime, my dear friend kelly sent me a link to a beautiful little art program a while ago. the program lets you paint pictures and then email the files to friends - who then get to watch the picture get "painted" before their eyes. it's like a tiny bit of magic. so, if you are bored today (or - if you have restless kids - this little program can occupy them for hours), go paint pictures for your friends. it will make them smile.
magic artpad
Labels: save as draft
Friday, January 07, 2005
times ten
My church is located not far from the school where I teach. When they built the church, the areas around it were full of mostly white, middle class families. Then, desegregation and "white flight" took place. The families that started the church moved to the suburbs, and most of the people who attend services travel thirty minutes to an hour on Sunday mornings (this may sound odd to those of you that are not from an area like Atlanta - but we are so accustomed to driving long distances that it is completely normal for us). When Chip and I moved into the neighborhood, all the older members of our church were excited. When I took the job teaching in the local high school, I had elderly women come up to me, take my hand, and tell me that they had attended my high school back when it was called Russell High School. They told me that their mother had been born in the house down the street, or their first boyfriend lived two doors down. The way it used to be. People were awed that I had the nerve to teach there, the way it is now. My mother broke down and cried when she found out I had applied for the job. Because of all these reactions, I began to have doubts about my decision.
I have always been a little uncomfortable with the way many people react to my job. They make references to the movie Dangerous Minds; or they ask me, with complete sincerity, if I feel physically safe in an environment like that. These conversations feel awkward because, honestly, I made a choice to teach in my school simply because I wanted to. I did my student teaching there, and I liked it. I suppose that if I taught in a more middle-class school, and had upper-level students, I might enjoy the intellectual depth and discussion. I love literature. I loved studying literature in college. I thought, before I did my internship, that higher-level, more advantaged and intellectual students were the kind of students I wanted to teach. I didn't really like Dangerous Minds when I saw it. I got more excited about Dead Poets Society; most of my educational fantasies involved grey wool, Ethan Hawke, hardwood floors, some sort of plaid, and a rolling, perfectly manicured campus. Then, I met these kids from the inner city. During my internship, I got to know them, and I realized that teaching here has something unexpected to offer.
I used to say that my goal as a teacher was simple; I wanted my students to get to the point that, someday, they would be bored and this thought would cross their mind: "Well, I guess I could read a book." I believe in books; I believe they have the power to become the keys that open doors. I believe that reading has the power to transform the reader. I am not a perfect teacher, but I believe in books.
My students have never had books. They don't come from homes where parents buy books. Nobody has ever modeled reading for them. Attending the poor schools, you don't get to read the new, interesting novels that are in the curriculum. You don't even get to read books your teacher thoughtfully chooses and has the department order. Instead, you read whatever came free with the textbook series, fifteen years ago, and there are only enough copies for half of the students, so you are forced to read along with your neighbor. Reading has never seemed "fun" for these kids. They approach it with fear and loathing.
What I have realized, is that teaching in a school like mine gives me an opportunity to introduce kids, for the first time, to the idea that literature is alive, and exciting, and relates to their lives. I fill my classroom with books that they can check out, and I talk about the things I have read. As a result, a good number of my students have started reading on their own. They carry books from class to class. Some of them check out more than one at a time.
Over Christmas break, I had lots of people at church ask me how teaching was going. I always answered that it is ten times harder than I expected, and ten times more rewarding. Harder, because my kids are so needy. I get subpoenas to go to court about them. I have kids that have lost family members this year, kids that tell me that they are going to try to do their work because they don't want to go back to jail. Monday, one of my new tenth graders had to get a pass to the nurse because she was leaking breast milk. She came back to class and finished her diagnostic essay with ice packs held against her chest. I've had two kids (that I know of) bring weapons to school. And I have way too many students (five classes of 25-30) - one hundred and forty of every assignment that I have to grade and record.
And yet, I don't think I would trade my job - not even for a window-lined classroom at the prettiest, college-prep academy in the world. I know that in a school with more resources, or in an upper-level classroom, I would find ways to help students and know that I was making a difference; but although I might be able to introduce them to a writer, or and idea - I doubt that I would be the one that introduced them to books.
One of my tenth graders from last semester slipped a letter in the back of the portfolio she turned in at the end of the term. I found it a few days ago. She wrote. "I now love reading and I like literature thanks to you." This is the sort of thing that makes everything else worth it. Ten times more rewarding. Without a doubt.
I have always been a little uncomfortable with the way many people react to my job. They make references to the movie Dangerous Minds; or they ask me, with complete sincerity, if I feel physically safe in an environment like that. These conversations feel awkward because, honestly, I made a choice to teach in my school simply because I wanted to. I did my student teaching there, and I liked it. I suppose that if I taught in a more middle-class school, and had upper-level students, I might enjoy the intellectual depth and discussion. I love literature. I loved studying literature in college. I thought, before I did my internship, that higher-level, more advantaged and intellectual students were the kind of students I wanted to teach. I didn't really like Dangerous Minds when I saw it. I got more excited about Dead Poets Society; most of my educational fantasies involved grey wool, Ethan Hawke, hardwood floors, some sort of plaid, and a rolling, perfectly manicured campus. Then, I met these kids from the inner city. During my internship, I got to know them, and I realized that teaching here has something unexpected to offer.
I used to say that my goal as a teacher was simple; I wanted my students to get to the point that, someday, they would be bored and this thought would cross their mind: "Well, I guess I could read a book." I believe in books; I believe they have the power to become the keys that open doors. I believe that reading has the power to transform the reader. I am not a perfect teacher, but I believe in books.
My students have never had books. They don't come from homes where parents buy books. Nobody has ever modeled reading for them. Attending the poor schools, you don't get to read the new, interesting novels that are in the curriculum. You don't even get to read books your teacher thoughtfully chooses and has the department order. Instead, you read whatever came free with the textbook series, fifteen years ago, and there are only enough copies for half of the students, so you are forced to read along with your neighbor. Reading has never seemed "fun" for these kids. They approach it with fear and loathing.
What I have realized, is that teaching in a school like mine gives me an opportunity to introduce kids, for the first time, to the idea that literature is alive, and exciting, and relates to their lives. I fill my classroom with books that they can check out, and I talk about the things I have read. As a result, a good number of my students have started reading on their own. They carry books from class to class. Some of them check out more than one at a time.
Over Christmas break, I had lots of people at church ask me how teaching was going. I always answered that it is ten times harder than I expected, and ten times more rewarding. Harder, because my kids are so needy. I get subpoenas to go to court about them. I have kids that have lost family members this year, kids that tell me that they are going to try to do their work because they don't want to go back to jail. Monday, one of my new tenth graders had to get a pass to the nurse because she was leaking breast milk. She came back to class and finished her diagnostic essay with ice packs held against her chest. I've had two kids (that I know of) bring weapons to school. And I have way too many students (five classes of 25-30) - one hundred and forty of every assignment that I have to grade and record.
And yet, I don't think I would trade my job - not even for a window-lined classroom at the prettiest, college-prep academy in the world. I know that in a school with more resources, or in an upper-level classroom, I would find ways to help students and know that I was making a difference; but although I might be able to introduce them to a writer, or and idea - I doubt that I would be the one that introduced them to books.
One of my tenth graders from last semester slipped a letter in the back of the portfolio she turned in at the end of the term. I found it a few days ago. She wrote. "I now love reading and I like literature thanks to you." This is the sort of thing that makes everything else worth it. Ten times more rewarding. Without a doubt.
Labels: save as draft
Monday, January 03, 2005
hi-ho, hi-ho
Sunday, January 02, 2005
gifted: part one
This year, my daughter wanted to know what I wanted for Christmas when I was a little girl. I told her that, for two years in a row, I asked for a Baby Alive doll - but my mother refused to buy me one because she thought the doll was disgusting and nasty. She kept trying to fool me with gifts of other, less alive babies. But I was a determined child; I continued to ask for Baby Alive. Finally, my mother relented; on the third Christmas, I got what I wanted.
"You know what I realized?", I asked my daughter. "I realized that my mother was right. Baby Alive was nasty and disgusting."
Lily wanted to know what made my doll so gross and disappointing. It was then that it dawned on my that my modern, Bitty Baby-toting child has no concept of urinating dolls. I started at the beginning. I told her that when I was kid, little girls played with dolls that had small holes in their mouths. We filled toy bottles with water, and it looked like the dolls "drank" the liquid. Then, the water went through a tube and out a little hole in the doll's pelvic area - making it seem like the doll "wet" its diaper. Finally, we got to change the wet diapers. It all seemed like fun at the time.
My daughter was horrified by this concept. "Did Baby Alive pee in her diaper?", she asked.
I told her that she did, but that the peeing part was not what made the doll so disgusting, because unlike other babies that only drank water, Baby Alive actually "ate" special Baby Alive baby food. You smashed on her chin and heard a motor start to grind inside her chest. Her mouth would open and close. She came with little packs of baby food mix that turned into a jelly-like substance when you added water (green lime, red cherry, and yellow banana). If you stuck a spoon with the "baby food" on it into Baby Alive's motorized mouth, the food would get sucked in. Then, about five minutes and a bottle of water later, the food would reappear (in its original technicolor, artificial fruit-scented form), as "poop" in Baby Alive's disposable diaper.
My daughter had a hard time processing this information. She wanted to know why anybody would make a doll like that. I told her I had no idea.
The more I think about it, the more surreal the whole thing becomes. I can picture some toy executive convincing their company that what little girls really wanted to do was clean up fake baby excrement. And the crazy thing is, we did want to. We watched the advertisements on television and thought that Baby Alive looked so cool. It was not until later, when we struggled to clean up a bunch of nasty, sticky, bright green, fake citrus scented goop off our baby's butt, that we realized we had been sold a load of literal crap.
"MY GOSH! SHE'S CHEWING!!!":
"You know what I realized?", I asked my daughter. "I realized that my mother was right. Baby Alive was nasty and disgusting."
Lily wanted to know what made my doll so gross and disappointing. It was then that it dawned on my that my modern, Bitty Baby-toting child has no concept of urinating dolls. I started at the beginning. I told her that when I was kid, little girls played with dolls that had small holes in their mouths. We filled toy bottles with water, and it looked like the dolls "drank" the liquid. Then, the water went through a tube and out a little hole in the doll's pelvic area - making it seem like the doll "wet" its diaper. Finally, we got to change the wet diapers. It all seemed like fun at the time.
My daughter was horrified by this concept. "Did Baby Alive pee in her diaper?", she asked.
I told her that she did, but that the peeing part was not what made the doll so disgusting, because unlike other babies that only drank water, Baby Alive actually "ate" special Baby Alive baby food. You smashed on her chin and heard a motor start to grind inside her chest. Her mouth would open and close. She came with little packs of baby food mix that turned into a jelly-like substance when you added water (green lime, red cherry, and yellow banana). If you stuck a spoon with the "baby food" on it into Baby Alive's motorized mouth, the food would get sucked in. Then, about five minutes and a bottle of water later, the food would reappear (in its original technicolor, artificial fruit-scented form), as "poop" in Baby Alive's disposable diaper.
My daughter had a hard time processing this information. She wanted to know why anybody would make a doll like that. I told her I had no idea.
The more I think about it, the more surreal the whole thing becomes. I can picture some toy executive convincing their company that what little girls really wanted to do was clean up fake baby excrement. And the crazy thing is, we did want to. We watched the advertisements on television and thought that Baby Alive looked so cool. It was not until later, when we struggled to clean up a bunch of nasty, sticky, bright green, fake citrus scented goop off our baby's butt, that we realized we had been sold a load of literal crap.
"MY GOSH! SHE'S CHEWING!!!":
Labels: save as draft
gifted: part two
Unlike the year of Baby Alive, this year I recieved some truly wonderful gifts (like circus peanuts, a movie poster from Escape to Witch Mountain, and fleece slippers that look like cowboy boots). Some of my favorite things are pictured below:
From my husband:
a fireplace for my back porch and homemade rose windows
From my beautiful friend kelly, who is an amazing artist:
a hand-painted copy of The Secret Garden
From my soulmate friendRoar:
a silver secret garden box that holds a secret
From my husband:
a fireplace for my back porch and homemade rose windows
From my beautiful friend kelly, who is an amazing artist:
a hand-painted copy of The Secret Garden
From my soulmate friendRoar:
a silver secret garden box that holds a secret
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Saturday, January 01, 2005
i'd like to thank the academy
In high school, I was very involved in local theater. My classmates signed my yearbook with comments about "remembering to thank them" when I became a famous actress. Every year, I would sit in front of the television in my pajamas and imagine my future self at the Academy Awards. I daydreamed about the Oscars. I wrote acceptance speeches in my notebooks during school the next day; I stood in front of my bedroom mirror and practiced looking surprised, humbled, and gracious.
With adulthood came the realization that, unless Oprah shows up and makes me her annual "regular person at the Oscars" correspondent, I will never walk the red carpet. I am sure that I will never find myself nominated for an Academy Award. But old dreams never disappear without leaving something faded around the edges. I think this is why I am a little bit emotional about finding out that I have been nominated for a blog award. Since this may be the only chance I get to give any sort of acceptance speech - I somehow feel compelled to publicly thank the two people I always hoped I would get a chance to honor:
First, I am honestly honored to be nominated. I am on a list that includes the blog of one of my very best, real-life friends - as well as the site of a highly respected and admired friend that I know through blogging. If I were an actress who had been nominated for an Oscar, I can pretty much guarantee that anything I said about "just being happy to be nominated alongside such talent" would be a total crock of bull. Thankfully, I did not choose that sort of life, and I can honestly say that I think Tulipgirl and hipteacher are fabulous.
Second, (and this is the part I wrote long ago - so it includes only the two people I wanted to thank when I was sixteen) I want to thank Mrs. Jan Dunlap, my ninth and eleventh grade English teacher, for giving me encouragement and making me feel found. You were more than a teacher; you were the key that opened the door that let me see myself as a teacher and writer. Thank You. Always.
Also, thanks to my father. I named the first tree I fell in love with after you. You told me about a time that I, as a toddler, reached up to you in the cold and commanded, "Keep this baby warm!". You picked me up then, and you have always kept me warm. Thank you Dad.
Best of Blog Awards
With adulthood came the realization that, unless Oprah shows up and makes me her annual "regular person at the Oscars" correspondent, I will never walk the red carpet. I am sure that I will never find myself nominated for an Academy Award. But old dreams never disappear without leaving something faded around the edges. I think this is why I am a little bit emotional about finding out that I have been nominated for a blog award. Since this may be the only chance I get to give any sort of acceptance speech - I somehow feel compelled to publicly thank the two people I always hoped I would get a chance to honor:
First, I am honestly honored to be nominated. I am on a list that includes the blog of one of my very best, real-life friends - as well as the site of a highly respected and admired friend that I know through blogging. If I were an actress who had been nominated for an Oscar, I can pretty much guarantee that anything I said about "just being happy to be nominated alongside such talent" would be a total crock of bull. Thankfully, I did not choose that sort of life, and I can honestly say that I think Tulipgirl and hipteacher are fabulous.
Second, (and this is the part I wrote long ago - so it includes only the two people I wanted to thank when I was sixteen) I want to thank Mrs. Jan Dunlap, my ninth and eleventh grade English teacher, for giving me encouragement and making me feel found. You were more than a teacher; you were the key that opened the door that let me see myself as a teacher and writer. Thank You. Always.
Also, thanks to my father. I named the first tree I fell in love with after you. You told me about a time that I, as a toddler, reached up to you in the cold and commanded, "Keep this baby warm!". You picked me up then, and you have always kept me warm. Thank you Dad.
Best of Blog Awards
Labels: save as draft
the dogs of babel
Because my husband has been home for Christmas break, I made the mistake of having him accompany me to the grocery store. Everything was fine until he saw me put ice cream dog treats in the basket. My husband did not approve of chicken flavored frozen yogurt.
"If Jesus returns while we are driving home", he said, "I'm going to make you explain buying ice cream for the dog."
I told him that I believe the Lord has no problem with doggie ice cream, because dogs are all about unconditional love.
Chip was not convinced. Later that night, he walked in and found me on the bed, with my dog laying horizontally over my neck. I was talking to her, telling her what a good dog she was. My husband looked at me and shook his head. "Please tell me you aren't telling the dog a bedtime story," he said.
I looked up and smiled. "You know what?", I said. "I think that, all this time, I had a Dog-Shaped Void and did not know it."
My newfound appreciation for the love of dogs (For most of my life, I have considered myself a "cat-person") may have been what prompted me to pick up The Dogs of Babel, and start reading it over break. I had seen this book when I worked at Barnes and Noble, and it always looked interesting, but someone I know read it and said it was "just okay", so I moved it to the back of my mental list.
I really, really, really liked this book. Because I worry about recommending books, I offer this caveat first: In order to really appreciate the novel, I think you need, at some point in you life, to have loved a dog. You also need to have an understanding of (or sympathy for) people who struggle with depression. If you can understand dogs and depression, I feel safe in saying that you ought to read The Dogs of Babel.
More than anything, the novel is a story about unconditional love. In the opening pages, the protagonist, a professor of linguistics named Paul, receives news hat his beloved wife has fallen out of the apple tree in their back yard and died. Although he can not allow himself to consider that she may have been depressed, he begins to suspect that her fall could have been intentional. The only witness to what happened is the couple's dog, Lorelei - and so, in order to discover the truth about his wife's last days, Paul begins trying to teach the dog to talk.
The novel brings out a number of beautiful revelations about love and marriage. Paul must confront his love for Lorelei and how it can be perverted by his desire to "alter" his dog in order to have her meet his needs. In doing so, he realizes that his love for his wife fell victim to the same conflicting emotions: love versus the desire to only accept her qualities that met his needs.
One thing I have learned in my own marriage is that the things that I love most about a person - their very best qualities and the things that attract me to them - are also the flip-side of the qualities that I find the most annoying. Rejecting one part of a person is not so simple when you realize that that part is connected to the same qualities that make them beautiful.
The Dogs of Babel offered a glimpse of what it means to forgive, accept, and love. I'd like to think that someday I can begin to love others this way. I'd like to learn to speak my dog's unconditional language of love.
"If Jesus returns while we are driving home", he said, "I'm going to make you explain buying ice cream for the dog."
I told him that I believe the Lord has no problem with doggie ice cream, because dogs are all about unconditional love.
Chip was not convinced. Later that night, he walked in and found me on the bed, with my dog laying horizontally over my neck. I was talking to her, telling her what a good dog she was. My husband looked at me and shook his head. "Please tell me you aren't telling the dog a bedtime story," he said.
I looked up and smiled. "You know what?", I said. "I think that, all this time, I had a Dog-Shaped Void and did not know it."
My newfound appreciation for the love of dogs (For most of my life, I have considered myself a "cat-person") may have been what prompted me to pick up The Dogs of Babel, and start reading it over break. I had seen this book when I worked at Barnes and Noble, and it always looked interesting, but someone I know read it and said it was "just okay", so I moved it to the back of my mental list.
I really, really, really liked this book. Because I worry about recommending books, I offer this caveat first: In order to really appreciate the novel, I think you need, at some point in you life, to have loved a dog. You also need to have an understanding of (or sympathy for) people who struggle with depression. If you can understand dogs and depression, I feel safe in saying that you ought to read The Dogs of Babel.
More than anything, the novel is a story about unconditional love. In the opening pages, the protagonist, a professor of linguistics named Paul, receives news hat his beloved wife has fallen out of the apple tree in their back yard and died. Although he can not allow himself to consider that she may have been depressed, he begins to suspect that her fall could have been intentional. The only witness to what happened is the couple's dog, Lorelei - and so, in order to discover the truth about his wife's last days, Paul begins trying to teach the dog to talk.
The novel brings out a number of beautiful revelations about love and marriage. Paul must confront his love for Lorelei and how it can be perverted by his desire to "alter" his dog in order to have her meet his needs. In doing so, he realizes that his love for his wife fell victim to the same conflicting emotions: love versus the desire to only accept her qualities that met his needs.
One thing I have learned in my own marriage is that the things that I love most about a person - their very best qualities and the things that attract me to them - are also the flip-side of the qualities that I find the most annoying. Rejecting one part of a person is not so simple when you realize that that part is connected to the same qualities that make them beautiful.
The Dogs of Babel offered a glimpse of what it means to forgive, accept, and love. I'd like to think that someday I can begin to love others this way. I'd like to learn to speak my dog's unconditional language of love.
Labels: save as draft
