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?"

Shameless Self-Promotion

One thing I have learned from my career as writer that I have (obviously) implemented in my quest to return to career as teacher is shameless self-promotion. Of course, I have. And it's weird. I started this "teacher blog" because one of my classes here is "required" to keep their own blogs. Because I'm one of those teachers who actually does every assignment the students do, I decided to launch this blog. When I say, "do every assignment", I mean it. When I assign an essay, I write one as a model. When I assign study guides for novels, they are written by me. But, I am having a cynical moment. My Facebook and this blog have become one, big walking advertisement: Teacher Extraordinaire. Hire me. Look at my displays. Look at my white board. Look. Look. Look.

And sigh. I mean, listen... "back in the day" we teachers didn't have these venues. We simply showed up to schools, hand-delivered our resumes, made old-fashioned phone calls and prayed. When we got interviews, we showed up and talked. No on-line applications, emails, fancy websites, blogspots. A handshake and a prayer got you a gig. Not anymore.

And thank gravy I launched a professional writing career and learned these "tools of the trade". I do like keeping a blog. It forces me to write at least these little essays every day. That and my private journal are the only writing I'm doing these days. I'm under so much stress and pressure serving as long-term sub here and there and interviewing and praying for a permanent gig for next year... I'm not writing. Ye gads. The world's gone mad. Not writing? Deep breath. It will cycle once again.

Finally, I love the irony of it all. I'm serving as creative writing teacher while not writing. Hopefully, the full-time job of looking for a full-time job will end and my mental space will empty and creativity will flourish again.

In the meanwhile... at least, I've been doing some high-quality teaching. These pickles are rockstars.

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!

Alchemy of Poetry

I don't know how it happens, but it does. When poets write (or read) in the same room, it's amazing how certain themes and strains wind their way through lines of poetry without purposeful intent. It's magic.

In class the other day, I assigned an e.e. cummings poem as inspiration to focus on form. We poets put our heads down to write. I write along with my students. Great opportunity to get some of my own poems written. Imagine my astonishment when circling the room, I leaned over one student's computer to see the same melancholy tone I had written in my own poem. I raced over to my computer to print. We read our poems and the class was blown away. How had this young poet and I had captured the same feelings... even using some of the same words to write our poems? We hadn't talked about it. And... what's even more weird? Our melancholy poems were radically different than the rest of the class's Spring-themed poems of hope, happiness and sunshine. We wrote about regret, shame, sadness. Our words were just so aligned. The feeling in-tune.

Last night, The Teen Howl Poetry rocked the mic. Again... without pre-planning, themes began to emerge. These poets don't even attend the same schools or even live in the same counties, yet... fireflies, carnivals, Kentucky culture, angst, magic linked the individual poems into one collective collage. Some nights, it's "ripping the Band-Aids off" nights. Last night was surreal. Like floating in a Miro painting. How does that happen?

I like to teach what I call "paired poetry". Today, I will practice it with my students. Two students are paired. Without discussion, the first poet writes a line and then folds the page over. The second poet writes a line. They go back and forth until each has written ten lines. Then... the magic. They open the poem to find one long poem collectively written and inevitably... it works. Somehow... some way... the poems become linked. Words are repeated. Ideas are echoed. How does that work?

The alchemy of poetry. The divine Muse that hovers over our shoulders and whispers into our ears. The magic of words.

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.

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.

Snowflake Teachers

I know. I know. Nobody wants to hear about snowflakes, particularly after so many Snow Days and especially on this first day of Spring. But, English teachers do like their irony.

Teachers are like snowflakes. Each is unique. Each has his/her own area of expertise. Once, an older teacher told me, "Remember, you aren't the first English teacher your students had and you won't be the last. Stop worrying so much. They'll get from you certain skills and gain other skills in other classes."

What a relief, really. For example, I'm the poetry teacher. Slam poetry. Sonnets. Rap and hip-hop. Blank verse. Free verse. Gimme verse. My dear teacher friend is the queen of non-fiction. (yuck and really?) It isn't until this advanced age that I now appreciate the love of non-fiction (and ironically, after writing creative non-fiction in blogs for years now: ha).  However, we both love nothing more than teaching a good, old-fashioned Shakespeare play and we adore novels.

One teacher I know teaches Philosophy as well as English. I could teach (and have taught) Art History and Creative Writing in addition to my vast experience as a "traditional" English teacher. I was so intimidated by the teacher I'm substituting for these days who is the Queen of Digital Technology. When I wailed to my husband, "I don't know all of these I-Movies, Powtoons, Movie Maker, Prezi stuff!" he reminded me, "Honey, that's HER comfort zone. You float in what YOU are good at."

And how grateful I am to have "stepped into her shoes" for the past several weeks. I have learned SO much about the wonderful uses of technology in the classroom. The incredible, inventive methods for transforming a personal narrative into a Digital Narrative. Researching Famous American Authors and presenting them digitally replete with background music and voice-overs. Reducing an incredibly intensive Argumentative Research Paper into a thirty-to-sixty second Public Service Announcement. Such an amazing gift to receive as I transition back into the classroom.

*Snowflake image credited to Professor Michael Peres. He has a love/hate relationship with snow, but takes the time to magnify and photograph the beauty of individual snowflakes regardless. Again with the irony.

Roller-coaster Teaching Days

Lemme get the job. Lemme get the job. I'm not going to get the job. I'm not going to get the gig. I love this school. I hate this school. No, I really love the job. I can see myself teaching here. Maybe I'm intended to teach somewhere else?

These are the messages that have run through my head all year as I launched into the strange world of long-term and daily subbing... all in order to "ease" my transition back into the classroom full-time next year. Ha! Ease? More like jump into the fire like an idiot and hope I don't get too burned and pray, instead I'll leave the day as ON FIRE as I started (yes, that happens more often than not).

And sigh... I'm awfully old to be "aspiring". Perhaps not, though. We writers are always "aspiring". We write poems, workshop the death out of them, order them, re-order them, read them aloud, and pray they turn into books and then... submit them to contests in hopes of publication. I even had the audacity to write three YA novels in the past few years. With every "rejection" note I received in my efforts to garner an agent, I am one step closer to the big HIT.

I remind myself... if my "pickles" love my stories in the classroom, surely kids will love my words on the page, right? That is... if my words stand without my facial expressions, gestures and dramatic voice. Dare dream.

That is what I'm daring to do these days... dreaming. To teach in a school where I can actually dig in and make a difference. Establish myself as teacher and develop relationships that will help kids. Get paid to do this weird thing I lovelovelove... read, write, analyze literature. I mean... talk about books all day? Read kids' words? You've got to be kidding me. It's the greatest gig in the world... if you can get it.

My greatest joy? Sharing my FAVORITE books and poems with kids. "You've never read dot dot dot? You've never seen fill-in-the-blank-poet read? Ooooh! Let me show you! I can't wait to share with you!" And with today's technology... it's a click of the button and there he/she is! Reading aloud on the screen. I remember when we English teachers FOUGHT over the ONE book in the library with the recordings of the ACTUAL writers reading his/her words. Those days are long gone....

but the roller-coaster days of aspiring are not gone. I'm holding on tightly... screaming my head off in part-elation; part-fear.

Due Dates

I just had an interesting conversation with the creative writing majors today in response to their concern, "What if I don't have my draft ready by tomorrow?" This, after I gave them an entire week (aside from my brief, stupid stories to launch class) to quietly write, write, write.

"Listen, kids. I hate to tell you, but when you are 'real' writers, submission dates are exactly that. You don't submit your work by the due date, editors and publishers are not even going to consider your work and you will never get published. You must understand the importance of due dates."

Okay, that may seem harsh. They're only middle school students. But, the same is true for expectations of high school teachers and college professors. They expect student work by a certain date. So, I'm preparing them for reality, right? Preparing them for their future educational careers. This is my job. And I know these students have a lot of pressure on them. I get it. But, I also see a lot of wasted time, fooling around (much like any other middle school kids). Sometimes a little pressure is a good thing.

And... these are writing majors. This is what they have chosen to do. I'm not that strict with the elementary kids who come in once a week to float in literary arts. Actually, they spin my heads with their creative, wacky little selves I'm surprised quality instruction even occurs. But, it does. Set expectations and kids will rise.

Pacing documents. Due dates. Expectations. Responsibility. The dreaded H word: homework. This is the reality of a classroom. Interesting how the sound of fingers tap tap tapping on keyboards floods the room today. No giggling. No whispering. Glasses on. Heads down...

because mean Ms. Beck laid down the law.

Storyteller Teacher

Like Frank McCourt (but not as famous nor as brilliant), I am a storyteller teacher. I guess it makes sense. I'm a writer, so I like to tell stories. I didn't realize until this latest stint how many funny, strange, even sad anecdotes from my life are woven within instruction. This class really loves my stories. "Tell us another story, Ms. Beck" and of course, I oblige.

My pickles' favorite stories are ones from my adolescent angst, of course. They love the stories about my famous unrequited love affair with Rodney Bedner. (names are changed in this blog, but I use the actual names in the classroom). Oh, how they love to hear about how I lovedlovedloved Rodney Bedner and how instead of asking ME to prom, I was devasted when he asked Nancy Kapple because she had just gotten her braces off. I mean, really? Because she had dazzling white teeth? Now, is this fair? I dramatize the pain and agony and especially the injustice of this slight. Then, I finish the story with the moral. "You know what, kids? I'm glad he asked Nancy Kapple to prom because she's dead. She's dead, I tell you. She's dead and I'm alive so I'm glad she got to go to prom with Rodney Bender. I mean, at least she got that. Sometimes in life, we don't know why things happen when they happen. But there is always a reason."

They are usually thunderstruck. Ah, the beauty of old age. So easy to share life experiences with kids and dazzle them by ordinary events like the inevitible death of us all. I don't know if many of my stories have specific morals, though. Perhaps I'm not wise and sage enough. In fact, now that I contemplate it... I realize some of my stories don't even have endings. They're just stories. Ways of connecting me to my students. Definitely humanizing.

And that is a major point. I strive to be a person first; teacher second. I remember (here I go with stories again) when I was a student, teachers didn't seem to exist outside of the classroom. They didn't have first names. They didn't have families, homes... and certainly never used the bathroom nor went to the grocery. I felt really disconnected from the formality that once dictated classroom behaviors. I don't want that for my students. I mean, I don't need them to know I pee, per se. But, I do put my entire name on the board and tell stories and expose myself as an ordinary human; not just (JUST) a teacher.

Sorry... no more time for stories now. Pickles are walking in and I've got old school Jackson 5 cued up for a surprise Music Pop-Up Moment. Oh, how I love the classroom.

Teacher Pickles

I have always called my students “pickles” hailing back to my early days of teaching. My students loved those stinky, garlic pickles wrapped in plastic they bought from the corner store to suck all day. Teenagers are like pickles; they are sour in temperament, sharp in odor, but I cannot get enough of them. I love them. Pickles have hard rinds, but are still green-fresh inside. The light that shines from my students’ eyes with exuberance and joy are cucumbers of spring.

I wrote that passage in an essay published in Pluck! Literary Journal last year. As I return to teaching all these years later, my new students delight in being called "pickes" as much as my previous students. Some of my new students now call me "Ms. Pickle" in response.

The point is students love terms of endearment. Developing strong, healthy relationships with students is the key to success in teaching. A teacher cannot give hard, honest criticism on their work without first establishing a sense of affection between us. It is integral to the process of teaching.  Children crave a sense of belonging in the classroom and it is my joy to provide that for them. Classrooms are an extension of our homes, really. We invite students in to do their best work and we teachers must push them to succeed. That cannot be done unless they are comfortable, feel loved and valued.

Calling students "pickles" is a badge of honor my students wear. They know that I "claim" them as my own and value each and every one of them. Of course I do. My role as teacher is to serve students. To help them to suceed. To work for them; not against them. When my students succeed; I succeed. That is good teaching.