Zen Moment

If a student has not responded to numerous redirects, but hasn't actually broken any rules to be "sent to the office", our school has what's called "co-safe". We send the student to another teacher's classroom with an assignment for a "time out". It's an effective method that also decreases office referrals which allows for both the student and teacher to take a breather. And when teaching middle school students, sometimes we all need a breather.

However, I was stumped as to what to create for my co-safe assignment. As an English teacher, I obviously don't like to assign writing as "punishment". Rewriting the school rules doesn't seem very productive either. So, when my students showed an interest in mandalas (because our genius Math teachers use mandalas in our school), I was inspired.

I bought a mandala coloring book and copied pages from it. Attached is a little note that reads, "You need what I call a Zen Moment. Take the coloring pencils and spend your time coloring in this mandala. You may return to my classroom tomorrow with a clean slate".

Obviously from the popularity of adult coloring books, the research proves that concentrated time coloring is a great way to calm down, focus energies and rejuvenate. Meditation is a great way of redirection. At the end of the activity, the student can feel a sense of accomplishment. I have yet to meet students who don't enjoy coloring and the purpose of "co-safe" is not punitive, but redirection. I think this co-safe assignment is inventive and productive. Not only that, meditation as a method of redirection is research-based. Proven effective. And a great method to help students learn to concentrate to de-escalate. The goal is for the student to be able to attend the rest of his/her classes productively. Coloring a mandala is an obtainable goal with quick result. At the end of co-safe, the child has something beautiful he/she created and feels a sense of calm.

And I believe that is the goal of disciplinary redirection.

Mother's Day Post

I would have been very upset with this idea when I first became a teacher... but I know it to be true. Being a mother makes me a better teacher. I am more patient, understanding and have a better sense of humor. Especially in dealing with redirects on behavior issues. I just don't get as frustrated as I did before I became a mom. After raising a son for fourteen years, I have experienced a LOT of crazy behaviors! I'm sure I am in for a wild ride getting him through high school... which will make me an even better teacher, too.

The idea that being a mother makes me a better teacher does not mean that young people who are not parents are not good teachers. Of course they are. I was a good teacher in my pre-mom days. It's just... parenting gives me a deeper understanding and empathy for students. And because I've almost always taught high school, I would never have been equipped for this latest gig which included teaching elementary aged students. So, I'm grateful that age, maturity and maternity were on my side in this latest teaching situation.

Although, I am grateful one thing hasn't changed from my pre-mom teacher days to now... one of my students wrote in her farewell letter, "thank you for treating us like we're humans and not just some dumb kids who you are forced to teach". You're welcome, pickle. I have always treated my students like the little PEOPLE they are. Dignity and respect. Care and concern.

Teacher Prayer

Okay, Universe, I give it up to you. I am grateful for my blessings. Love my family, dogs and friends. I do not take for granted the opportunities I have been provided. I devote my life to serving others as a teacher and in the community. I pray under the elm tree. Appreciate my life. Allow joy to flood my being. Thank you.

This is the prayer I almost posted on Facebook, but then decided it would be misinterpreted or perhaps just too "unsacred" of a place for such a sincere sentiment. I am ending my long long-term sub position Friday and out into the land of interviewing for that elusive permanent position for next year. I've gone to some very promising interviews already, but it's the beginning of the interviewing season for teaching, so I'm strapping on my seatbelt and getting on the rollercoaster.

I must trust that the universe has a plan for me that is beyond my control. That is the advice my teacher-guru-friend gave me the other day. The right school will offer me a position in the right place at the right time. In the meanwhile, all I can do is hustle and put my best self out there. Beyond that, it's not in my control. Especially since the BIG district in town is on a "hiring freeze" until May 15. So, that means no school can even post a position, let alone offer a position until after that date.

And with my son's prep school commitment looming... that's not a lot of time.

I did choke back tears yesterday as my little elementary students walked out of my classroom for the last time, clutching their three haikus they wrote during the bell. Oh, I'm so funny. When I was first confronted with such little people, I was baffled. After almost three months, I'm endeared. I've never met a pickle I didn't adore. Even little pickles. Especially those dimple-knuckled hands clutching poems. They're that little.

I will walk out of the school doors on Friday with a smile of gratitude for the wonderful experience I've had serving these students. I will focus on the open doors that will welcome me in the fall. I pray.

Too Close for Comfort

Yesterday afternoon, our new neighbors made their appearance. We have been really excited to meet our new neighbors who just bought the house next-door, so we walked over to introduce ourselves. We met the husband who was there to cut the lawn. He explained that he worked in an ER and his wife was a teacher. Imagine the look of dismay when I exclaimed, "Our son attends that middle school" and then, the look of relief when I clarified, "but, he's an eighth grader. He won't be at the same school next year."

I had to giggle. Of course, he looked relieved. I would be horrified if one of my students lived right next door. Not that I don't love my students and delight in seeing them out in the community. But, to live right next door to one of my own students? That's a bit too close for comfort. We teachers need to have a bit of privacy. Especially in our own homes. It's one thing to invite students over once they've graduated and grown up, it's entirely another thing to have to come home from working hard in the classroom to seeing one of your own students in your backyard.

What's even better for this teacher is that she teaches sixth grade. Our son never had her as a teacher, as she just started at his school this year. Our son plans to attend private school next year, so they won't even be in the same school system. This teacher is safe. Not that I would expect her behavior at home to be much different than at home... that's not what I'm saying. It's just nice to have boundaries.

I will forewarn them about the "epic" birthday party my son has planned in two weeks. It's going to be a movie-on-the-pond party and also a farewell to his school party. He plans to invite forty kids. I will make sure our new teacher neighbor is aware of this event so she can make herself scarce, if she's so inclined. Otherwise, imagine her dismay to look out the window to see forty students from her school running wild in our backyards. I'll give her a chance to hide.

Figuratively Literal

Ha! This age group of kids cracks me up. Mostly because they don't understand figurative language. When I launched this gig, I started calling my students "pickles". For the first time ever, one student took offense. "I can't be called a 'pickle', Ms. Beck. I'm allergic to pickles." What? Allergic? Seriously? Apparently so, according to her health plan at school. So I replied, "Okay, then. I'll just call you what you are. You are my BEST student". Now, every time I say, "Pickles" she always responds, "And your BEST student".

Today, I told the writing majors that I was reconsidering their topic ideas for flash fiction. First, I agreed to allow them to write murder mysteries. Then, I started thinking about their one-act plays. I said, "I don't know if we should write murder mysteries. No offense, but you kids do much better when you write what you know. When some of you wrote about anything to do with the law, courts or hospitals, your plays went awry. And listen, John Grisham was a lawyer for years before he turned his attention to writing legal thrillers. I can't write legal thrillers. I don't even know the jargon. I've never been to law school. So, I'm thinking we should stick with gritty realism."

I received a groan. After three months, I "get" them now. So, I clarified. "When I say 'gritty realism', I don't necessarily mean you have to go for the emotional juglar. You don't have to write about personal painful stuff. You can write funny stuff. Most embarassing moments. Light-hearted topics. It doesn't have to be heavy. It just needs to be authentic."

Later, a pickle approached me. "Do you have an idea for me to write about?" I replied, "I don't have your ideas. Where are your ideas?" When she frowned, I told her to take a "zen moment and contemplate the universe". Now, I've got a kid wandering around the classroom, looking thoroughly confused.

A group of kids came into class late, which happens often at a performance arts school. However, they were very loud and talkative while the rest of my students were quietly tap tap tapping at the computers. A pickle said, "You are being very rude and disruptive. We are working."

I looked up from writing this essay, raised an eyebrow and said, "Good thing you are my 'best' student then, huh?"

Guyute in the Classroom

Today, I taught one of my favorite lesson plans about the philosophy of aesthetics... using my beloved Phish to demonstrate. That's right. Phish found its way into academia and I could not be more proud of how well it works.

First, I discuss ekphrastic art and the triangular relationship between the artist's intention, the art itself and the audience's response. I explain how sometimes, there is a huge distance between what the artist intends and how the audience perceives the work itself. "For example, if we were all at the Cincinnati Art Museum, staring at a Van Gogh painting, why can't we ask Vincent what he intended?" Yes, because he's dead. Dead, I tell ya. We can't ask him. Well, even if the artist is alive, we might all perceive art very differently from each other because we all come with a different set of life experiences.

Then, I read the children's story, "Once Upon an Ordinary School Day" written by Colin McNaughton and illustrated by Satoshi Kitamura. It's a lovely chilren's book that demonstrates the lesson when an extraordinary teacher walks into an ordinary classroom and starts booming music, asking the students to draw what they "see" in the music. Then, after each child has several big pieces of white paper, pencils, crayons and markers, we begin.

I use the orchestral piece "Guyute" performed by the Vermont Youth Orchestra because the kids are always blown away that kids their age were the musicians. Although it's eleven minutes long, I've yet to have a class that hasn't written and drawn images. Mice, mountains, blue skies, thunder, kings, queens, dancers, volcanoes. Completely contained within their own response to the song. When it's over and I have asked the students to share what they "saw", I then pretend astonishment.

"None of you wrote about an ugly pig? Really? No one?"

I pass out the lyrics of the song and explain. Not only is this a song about an ugly pig named Guyute, it is also a rock and roll song originally performed by a band called Phish and then, composed to orchestral music by Trey Anastasio.

With the lyrics in hand, I launch on showing them the song again (this time, on the big screen).... Phish in its finest. Every single class always delights in singing along. They love the light show. They exclaim about the balloons and beach balls. Because today I taught it in a performing arts school, for the first time ever... kids got up and danced with me. Full-throttle, hands in the air, dancing with delight to Phish!

Finally, I explain. "Now sometimes, there is a much closer relationship between art and the audience response. For example, certain tones should create specific images in your mind. Get a clean piece of paper. This time, there is a 'right' answer. Listen to the music and draw what you see." I play "Andre the Giant" a calypso style song replete with steel drums. When the first student draws and island and a palm tree, I make a big fuss. "That's it! You've got it. That's the right answer". Of course, I let all of the kids lean over to "see" the "right" answer.

Then, I conclude by revealing, "And ladies and gentlemen, would you be suprised to learn that song was performed by the very same guy? That's right. Trey Anastasio. See why I love him so much? He's brilliant."

Because we had about fifteen minutes left in our "bell" today and because we have a keyboard in the classroom, the piano major students took turns playing for us. Mozart, Bach, ragtime.

I hope this happens once again....

 Thank you, Trey

Jolly Rancher Conspiracy

Hilarious! Today, I gave a Jolly Rancher to a student who did a random act of kindness to me. I had put a word document on the "overhead", but forgot to "freeze" it. So when I opened my email, the entire class could see it. The student politely said, "Hey, Ms. Beck. Your Outlook is on the board. You might want to 'freeze' the word document so we don't see your message." I was so grateful (and embarassed) I immediately said, "Oh!" minimized the screen so it returned and reached to give her a Jolly Rancher as a reward for being so kind.

However, when the class saw me give the kid the Jolly Rancher, suddenly manipulative, hilarious "random acts of kindness" ensued. The first act was so funny, I gave another candy. A child said, "Oh, look, Katie. You forgot your Jolly Rancher. Here, let me bring it over to you."

Then, the next student said, "Oh, Taylor, don't hurt yourself. Here, let me help." The following, "Sydney, you forgot your phone. Let me give it back to you." "May I help you with your letter?" "Let me draw a flower for you." "Watch out. You don't want to hurt yourself."

Of course, by this time, I couldn't stop laughing. But, I didn't parcel out any more Jolly Ranchers. The idea is that RANDOM acts of GENUINE kindness receive reward. Not ridiculous, manipulative, empty gestures to be noticed.

Regardless, it ended the classbell on a pretty funny note.

Talking Back

Wow! And what in the what what? I just said to a student, "Please put your name on your paper." He replied, "It is on there." I handed him the paper. No name. No name. This, after talk talk talking while I was trying to give instructions to launch class. I stopped. Waited. Started instruction again. Talk talk talk. I stopped. Waited. Started again. I said, "Please, do finish what you have to say. It is rude to talk while other people are talking, so I will wait for you to finish." He talked back, "I didn't say anything."

Talking back. It makes me see purple, I get so frustrated. My own son is the King of talking back. He's at the end of eighth grade and is asserting his power these days. I say "white", he says "black". "Up". "Down". "Yes". "No". No matter... he will say the opposite of whatever I say... unless he wants something. Then, he is sweet and light. Agreeable. Kind. Otherwise, I face a talking-back monster.

The irony of all of this? I was the Queen of Talking Back when I was a kid. Seriously, I was the worst smart aleck you'd ever meet. However, I don't remember talking back to teachers. Just to my parents. And oohh... could I talk back.

I just got up and walked through my class to check their work. The child who talked back turned around really quickly, almost expecting me to maybe spank him. Of course, I wasn't even going near him... but that was a very telling moment. I wonder if he talks back like that because he doesn't have much power and control at home? Could that be? Or is talking back a rite of passage for kids maturing into young adults? I know I'm not a strict authoritarian at home and my own son talks back. Now, I'm wondering. Why do some kids talk back and others "yes, ma'am?"

And look at what I found for an image for this essay (see below). Is that right? Is talking back merely explaining? I guess it's all about the tone, really.

Monster Teacher

My son has a teacher who terrifies him. He is afraid to approach her. Won't raise his hand to volunteer answers and keeps his head down every time he enters her class. Now, I ask you... what causes a teacher to become terrifying?

I know not one teacher enters this career with the goal of intimidating students. We work hard in college and in graduate school to become teachers. We battle school districts, proficiency testing, common core and every other barrier on behalf of the well-being of our students. So, why do some of us suddenly become the Monster Teacher?

I have known some of these teachers in my career in education. They yell at the kids all of the time. Frown all bell. Use derision and contempt. Burn-out?

When I was a student, I was terrified of all of my teachers. But, that was more about my fear of authority than anything else. I was actually surprised when a teacher treated me with kindness and respect. Teachers in the 1970's and 80's weren't known for being the most kind people on the planet, though. And dynamics in the classroom were much different than they are today. When I attended a parochial pre-school, the nuns still spanked and wacked our knuckles with rulers. Of course, I was afraid of all of my teachers. Even through college.

So, when I became a teacher, I promised myself to be the lovingkindness teacher. I believe in treating each child with dignity and respect for the little people they are and the adults they are becoming. And I'm not the exception to the rule. Most of the teachers I know are the same. Kind. Considerate. Encouraging.

But, there are still a generation of Monster Teachers who are in the classroom. And it breaks my heart. Good thing my kid has a Mommy who is not afraid to ROAR back.

Writer's Rings

"Ms. Beck, your nails always look so nice and I just love all of your rings. You really have the best rings." Spoken by one of my creative writing majors. "Oh," I reply. "There's a reason for that. I like to have my nails done and wear beautiful rings because writing can be painful, you know? It's nice to have something beautiful to look down on in the process."

Little "tricks of the trade" actually. We writers do have strange quirks in order to fuel the alchemy of writing. Not only do I wear rings, I like to have certain objects around my desk. Skeleton keys, amethyst crystals, at least one plant. Objects contain power. They should be carefully cultivated when arranged around one's writing space. Other writers need to drink coffee from the same chipped mug. Sit in the same corner of a coffee house while finishing a piece. Listen to the same music while immersed.

Like my writing sweater. I wore the same sweater the entire winter I wrote one of my books. The elbows are thread-barren. It's stained. Torn. Faded. No matter. I still had to don that sweater to finish the book. So, I smiled when my spiritual daughter came to our home to finish a full-length manuscript saying, "I need to change into my writing pants first". Of course she did.

I can only write with one kind of pen. And I'm super-protective of that pen. I won't loan it out. Won't share. Freak out when it runs out of ink and I need to buy a new pack. I can't write in any other ink. It must be black. Not blue. It must be the Pilot G-2 10. Not 7. 10. I only use sketchbooks for my journals. Plain, heavy white paper. No lines. Absolutely no lines.

And all poems must be printed single-spaced. Times New Roman. 12 point font. No exceptions. My students groan, but they're getting used to it. The rituals of writing. Here is a photo from the Facebook group "Glad to be a Teacher". I think it says it all!

Teacher Schtick

We teachers have shticks that keep our students engaged. For example, not only am I the "story-teller" teacher, I also call my students "pickles". I'm the "Jolly Rancher" teacher as well. I do not reward students for the right answer with Jolly Ranchers. I dole them out for random treats and when I catch a student doing a random act of kindness. I also tell them, "Raise your right hand and repeat after me, 'On my honor, I will not choke'". Of course, that also gets a laugh.

Pop-up Music Moments. Sidewalk chalk Haiku days in the Spring where we write our poems all over the concrete walkways to the entrance of the school. Spider Moments. If a bug of any kind is found in my room (including spiders), we gently scoop them up into a tissue and free them outside because every life deserves a chance. "Be free, Spider. Be free". No stomping or squishing. Freedom.

Botox... I joke around about wanting Botox so my face doesn't reveal my expressions. Yesterday, a student brought in a brochure about a natural alternative to Botox that her mama sent. She said, "Since my mom has been using this stuff, I honestly can't read her expressions. It really works, Ms. Beck".

Zip-Zap-Zop is my "classroom game" we play from time-to-time. This, after the name game we play at the beginning of the year. Chants such as "Writing is not an event. Writing is a process". When we walk through the hallways, I say, "Tip-toe, tip-toe like anywhere a mouse can go" which is my method of teaching prepositions. "Get going with the get-go" is another phrase. "What-in-the-what-what" and "For all the world" are my alternatives to profanity.

I tell every class, "You are my favorite class. Seriously, my favorite class". But, I tell that to every class. Of course, they find out and pretend indignation. But, they still light up when I tell them they're my favorites.  Clutching their essays or tests or writings to my chest and telling them, "This is the best gift you could ever give me. Your words. I can't wait to read. Thank you".

And when the writing is good, I break into my "poetry dance". I dance around a bit and sing, "'cuz you are so smart. My kids are so smart." Ownership and belonging... what kids crave. My pickles. My delight.

Finally, once I know my students well... hugs, love and laughter. Lots of laughter. More love.

Rainy Days

On rainy days, it's good to remember the blessings of life. I'm not just talking about the weather. I'm talking about the teacher blues. Having been "hit" with some professional disappointments, I can decide whether to let that take me down down down or get back up and get going with the get-go. And sometimes, that's easier said than done.

But, moments like teaching (In Just-) and looking out my classroom windows to see children jump-rope running are just so inspiring. Announcing the "winners" of our classroom PSA contest promoting the importance of keeping the arts alive in public schools to be aired on our local television station is exciting. Preparing elementary children for their first public reading this Saturday melts my heart. Walking up to the steps of the school to find a heart made of dandelions placed on the concrete delights me with a smile.

So, when the literary journal I so wanted to place my poems in declined me... I used it as an example to my creative writing students of "a writer's life". We must accept rejection as part of the process, tuck it away and keep submitting. I told my kids, "So, if I ask you to write yet another revision... accept that. Writing is not an event. Writing is a process." This is a mantra we chant regularly.

Today, I am focusing on my teacher's mantra: "I'm so grateful to have a classroom in which to float. I'm so grateful to be a teacher. I'm so grateful for these students. I'm so grateful for today." Concentrating on the present. The moment. Today.

Lost Letters

In the spirit of being the "story teller" teacher, I mentioned the box of old love letters I had found in my attic last year. My students freaked out. Love letters? Notes? From boys?

As a "treat", I brought them into class yesterday to demonstrate the lost art form of letter writing. Texts just can't be saved for forty years. What I learned in the process? Romance is dead. It's dead, I tell ya. These kids are light-years away from understanding the passion and angst of my generation's middle school romances.

So, although the box contained letters starting in fifth grade and spanning all the way into my college years, I only read the first romance letters from my ten year old love. "Put answer is locker 572". Petitions of kids who thought I should "go" with said boy. Boxes to "check" whether I liked him or not. Chronologically, the letters moved from darling gestures of "Do you like me? I like you and think you look very nice" to "That's it! I'm dropping you! I'm done with you." In between, lines of Beatles lyrics and references to John Lennon's death scattered throughout. Treasures.

What I liked was the progression of hand-writing from simple printed block letters to elaborate cursive writing. I showed them as examples of the importance of cursive writing. How are this generation of kids going to read any primary documents if they can't read and write in cursive? Even the most simple: grandma's recipes hand-written on recipe cards and stained and yellowed and curled from years and years of use. Eventually, parents die. We can't always be there to "read" to them.

Sifting through the letters before class both awakened my senses and broke my heart. On one hand, isn't it great that I had so many suitors to pour their love onto the page for my eyes to read? Not so bad for this old lady. On the other hand, I found letters from a dear friend who died ten years ago, which made me cry. I also learned a lot of things about my young self. Things I probably should have read before I wrote my first book of poetry. Insights into the distance I created between myself and boys for protection of all parties involved. In fact, the bewilderment of my seventh grade's love was very telling to me. "I would like us to have a real conversation. Like, get to know each other". Of course, I ran. My unrequited high school love wrote me a letter in college that I still cherish. So clever. He wrote two letters in one. Every other line. One in black ink. The other in blue ink. The black ink was the standard "How are you?" letter. The blue ink was the "deeper" letter which stated, "I can't believe we never really had a heart-to-heart to cut through the b.s." Again, I ran.

However, walking the nostalgic road of these love notes is a gift that I grieve my students will never have. Snap chats and texts will not last the test of time. So, today... I will have each of them write a love letter to themselves to save for thirty years. At least, they'll have one yellowed note written on lined paper in pencil or ink. A lost art form, to be sure.

April Showers

Some days, I must admit, I really wonder what I'm doing in an elementary/middle school. These children are just not my favorite age group. I don't have any experience (outside of raising my own son) with kids THIS young. Perhaps I made a mistake taking this gig. Even if it's only a long-term sub assignment. Maybe it's the wrong placement for me.

Yesterday, my little students groaned in protest about April Poetry Month. "You haven't taught us anything but poetry since you've been here." This particular class only comes to me once a week. Many of our meeting times have been cancelled due to very important Dance Performances and Choir Performances. Understandably... these performances are assessed. My once a week pop up creative writing class is only a chance for elementary students to float in my writing world. Much like an elective of sorts.

However, I felt dismayed. Certainly we haven't JUST written poetry? In fact, we haven't. We began writing letters. We moved to writing words to create our Writer's Toolbox. Those words can be used in any form of writing. Not just poetry. But, I persevered. Actually, I had to smirk. I wonder if this teacher has a copy of "Love that Dog" for me to give him? That would be the perfect book for this grumbly non-poetry writing kid.

And then, in the space of time during my very quiet, isolated lunch, my door opened. A tiny little dancer entered the room. "Ms. Beck? I wrote my Poem for My Pocket, but I don't understand it. Could you explain it to me?" I opened her folded pocket to find in careful little cursive writing one of the most beautiful poems I have ever read. A poem I had never even seen before. What delight.

After that lovely moment of poetry analysis she conluded, "And you know those poems you showed us yesterday? Well, I had never heard poetry like that before and you know what? It inspired me to write my very own poem... the first poem I've ever written. I wrote it last night."

At that moment, it started pouring. Both the spring shower outside my window and within my heart. After the little tiny dancer left my room, I cried.

Perhaps I am in the right place.

Forgotten Laughter

I feel reflective on this last Spring Break day after the rain has stopped, the house thoroughly cleaned, a little gardening and a lot of reading and resting... what I realized this quiet quiet week is the best part of "returning to the classroom" is the laughter. I loved staying home to write, but there just isn't very much laughter in solitude. Not like there is at school. Kids laugh a lot more than do adults. Sure, there's chaos and drama and tears (and not just from the kids, either) but there is so much laughter in the classroom.

Of course, I've read the Laughing Buddha research and have learned it to be true. Laughing more often throughout the day is just a much more pleasant existence for my nature. Quiet contemplation every day is just too much for me. Instead, I found that teaching feeds my writing spirit more than solitude. And perhaps also because my other activities are solitary... making art, reading, cooking, gardening and sigh, even cleaning... it's better for my overall mental health to be in the classroom every day.

I also have become more reclusive from a social aspect the past few years. More so than ever before in my life. I tend to be reclusive and shy away from big social occasions because even though I seem to have a very extroverted (and I hope, charming) nature, I suffer from social anxiety. In the classroom, though, the discussions are directed. The fun is found in context of the work. There doesn't have to be a forced witty banter. Laughter comes more naturally in the classroom. I mean, we're talking about reading and writing while we're reading and writing. It's a great gig if you can get it, really.

So, although I will not rejoice in setting an alarm for five-thirty Monday morning, I will smile knowing that I'm heading back into a school full of laughter.

Poem In Your Pocket

In order to prepare for April Poetry Month, this week I asked fourth and fifth graders to research poetryfoundation.org to find "their" poem. Their task? To read, read, read poems until ONE magical poem jumps from the page and inserts itself into their pockets. What's worse? No copy/paste onto a word document to print... GASP! They had to write the poem exactly the way the poem appears on the page. That's right, folks. Write in in colored pencils or markers onto lined paper or index cards provided for the occassion.  And even more? To read a little background information on that poet. Learn about that poet. Love that poem.

Groans of agony. Torturous task. Horrible teacher. Read? Write? Is she mad? Mean? Why?

And then, this strange thing happened. A quiet settled over the room. Students immersed in words. Ahh! The big moment! That poem. That one poem that sings. Hits them in their solar plexus. That poem they just can't live without.

To see the delight in their eyes when they ended the class bell, inserting their poems into their pockets or slid into their boots or tucked under their hair ribbons. Little people's hands waving multi-colored, hand-written poems. "Look, Ms. Beck. Look at MY poem. My Poem in my Pocket!"

April is just going to be a great month.

Diggin' Deep

I wrote about terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad days we teachers sometimes experience. You know what gets me through? The students. No matter how low I fall, these kids lift me up every single time. Unbelievable.

To see a kid's eyes light up when he's discovered a magical thing happen in the process of writing his novel. Ahh... yes. That moment. The reason we writers write. When the characters take on a life of their own. When the plot twists on its own accord. Sounds weird? Try writing a novel. It happens and when it does, it is the most exhilarating experience ever. To see the joy emanating from my student's eyes was more than enough to make me dig deeper and recognize how blessed I am to be a teacher.

Then, I open Facebook to see one of my past students on a local television show, broadcasting his latest culinary endeavors in his career. I post, "You are a rockstar! I am one proud teacher." To which he responds, "Ms. Beck, I hope I can always make you proud". Again.... joy.

Tackling my emails... I find my current student's latest draft of his one-act play that is good enough to submit to the Kennedy Center's student play contest. His note of gratitude for the opportunity inspired me to open his email attachment and read through the current draft. What did he do? Took every single note I gave him and revised, rewrote and polished what was already the best one-act play of the class. He dug deep.

I'm inspired to dig deeper.