This will probably be the most informal of the posts that I've created thus far. So I've just returned from a meeting with the "Helmuth Lab Team"--we leave for Oregon on Friday morning. I am so excited about this incredible opportunity!
Before today, I must admit that global warming and climate change was a topic that I believed to be worth teaching. Yes, being "stewards of the Earth" is not written in the standards, but we can all appreciate how necessary it is. The problem is that I've never taken that approach. Correction--I've mentioned it to my students. We've even had a couple of (brief) discussions, but "living it" in front of their eyes is not something that I've done. I wouldn't call it neglect. Probably ignorance. Not really knowing or understanding how our Earth and every living thing that calls it home, is being impacted by a changing climate has been my primary reason for not really touching on it too much.
One of the objectives for the field research is for us to study the impact of climate change from an organism's perspective. Well...there are lots of different little ecosystems that we'll be studying, so there will be a variety of organisms that we'll come in contact with.
During our debriefing, there were several things that kind of went over my head (all the technical stuff/some of the terms). I feel like I need a whole course on climate change! I didn't really know what questions to ask. One thing became perfectly clear to me: Climate change is real and it will be really hard for me to ignore it, let alone (not) teach/discuss/acknowledge it with my daughter/students. In fact, I'd be negligent NOT to do so. I know that I will learn so much from this experience alone.
I look forward to (what I'm sure will be) this life-changing experience.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Salad, Baked Fish, and Michael
I told myself that I would start writing more. My blog has been sorely neglected (up until now). Several writers notebooks with pages waiting to be breathed on. "I'll get to it", is my usual response. Sometimes, though, the inspiration just hits you at the moment when you least expect it.
I just polished off a blazin' salad with baked fish. Although a glass of wine would have gone perfectly with that meal, I decided to wash it down with a cold glass of Tropicana Orchard Peach Punch (which happens to be on sale at Wal-Mart for $1.00). Yes, I know that's "country", but I like what I like. Plus, my mind is clear. But I don't intend to talk solely about what I had for dinner or the deals I catch at Wal-Mart. I guess it's my (covert) way of avoiding the subject, so bear with me.
I've refrained from writing about really personal topics on my blog. There's an open invitation for anyone to read it. Most of my posts are about my family or my life as a teacher. On the sidelines, I usually talk about basketball, although I don't usually post about that. I'm a totally different animal when it comes to basketball. I can't help it--I'm a fiend, at best! How I'll make it through the summer, I don't know. Perhaps a separate blog is on the horizon...(again, this was another attempt to get off topic)
Sometimes, though, the inspiration hits you to write about things that are really close to your heart. As my friend Tim would put it, "you're showing that you're human." I'm sure that we can all admit to wanting to purge our thoughts/emotions/feelings as a method of catharsis. Going "public" with those same thoughts is on a different level-there's a bit of vulnerability that goes along with that. This is probably why it's one of those human qualities that many of us try to conceal or keep close to our hearts. It gets easier with every risk I take (at least as a writer).
Right before my first year of teaching, I worked during the summer as a camp counselor. It was there that I met Michael. I just knew that he was "the one." For the first time in my life, it seemed, I knew what love felt like coming from a significant other. My memories will be very random: There was patience. Appreciation. Anticipation. Great dinners followed by hours of great conversation that just nourished the soul. Long evening walks. Countless hours of listening to GOOD music. The way he looked at me. The way he talked to me in hushed tones. The way I giggled or played with my ear to keep from blushing. Poetry--it was as if sometimes what we felt couldn't be spoken...we had to write it out. I was inspired in so many ways by his words that I HAD to write, too. Just for him. My heart would ache just thinking about how happy I was--I realized that love doesn't have to hurt. I would smile at the most random moments. Everyone around me sensed it. I'd never felt such a connection with another human being. The best part was...I didn't lose myself in the relationship or in him, as I had done in my past. I saw me...a different me, though.
So what happened? Although our friendship remains, the relationship eventually dissolved. There were differences that neither of us were ready to outgrow, or better yet, admit if we wanted to outgrow. I've come away knowing more about myself, though. There will always be a part of me that will give credit to him for inspiring me to love so freely--without any inhibitions. That's a loving friendship that many people spend their life chasing.
A few months ago, Michael shared with me that he is in a relationship and thinks that he has found the woman that he wants to marry. Even though I know with every fiber of my being that he is not the husband that God has chosen for me, I felt a little disappointed...as if I had failed at something. Then I remembered something that I would always tell myself: perhaps God wanted our paths to cross to give an example of true love and friendship. My friend Shawntay shared something with me years ago written by T.D. Jakes--he talked about sort of celebrating moments like this. Being thankful for seasons--everyone is not meant to stay in your life forever. I know that it's okay to celebrate love when it's here, but also it's okay to let it go when you have to. More importantly, I know that it's okay to expect love to make me feel a certain way the next time it comes around. My eyes and ears are open. My heart is ready...
Typically, I would try to find the best way to craft each line in my post--I worry about the audience that reads my blog. Because I'm simply "collecting my thoughts", I won't worry about the particulars if you promise to do the same :)) .
I guess I am human, afterall.
*Exhale*
I just polished off a blazin' salad with baked fish. Although a glass of wine would have gone perfectly with that meal, I decided to wash it down with a cold glass of Tropicana Orchard Peach Punch (which happens to be on sale at Wal-Mart for $1.00). Yes, I know that's "country", but I like what I like. Plus, my mind is clear. But I don't intend to talk solely about what I had for dinner or the deals I catch at Wal-Mart. I guess it's my (covert) way of avoiding the subject, so bear with me.
I've refrained from writing about really personal topics on my blog. There's an open invitation for anyone to read it. Most of my posts are about my family or my life as a teacher. On the sidelines, I usually talk about basketball, although I don't usually post about that. I'm a totally different animal when it comes to basketball. I can't help it--I'm a fiend, at best! How I'll make it through the summer, I don't know. Perhaps a separate blog is on the horizon...(again, this was another attempt to get off topic)
Sometimes, though, the inspiration hits you to write about things that are really close to your heart. As my friend Tim would put it, "you're showing that you're human." I'm sure that we can all admit to wanting to purge our thoughts/emotions/feelings as a method of catharsis. Going "public" with those same thoughts is on a different level-there's a bit of vulnerability that goes along with that. This is probably why it's one of those human qualities that many of us try to conceal or keep close to our hearts. It gets easier with every risk I take (at least as a writer).
Right before my first year of teaching, I worked during the summer as a camp counselor. It was there that I met Michael. I just knew that he was "the one." For the first time in my life, it seemed, I knew what love felt like coming from a significant other. My memories will be very random: There was patience. Appreciation. Anticipation. Great dinners followed by hours of great conversation that just nourished the soul. Long evening walks. Countless hours of listening to GOOD music. The way he looked at me. The way he talked to me in hushed tones. The way I giggled or played with my ear to keep from blushing. Poetry--it was as if sometimes what we felt couldn't be spoken...we had to write it out. I was inspired in so many ways by his words that I HAD to write, too. Just for him. My heart would ache just thinking about how happy I was--I realized that love doesn't have to hurt. I would smile at the most random moments. Everyone around me sensed it. I'd never felt such a connection with another human being. The best part was...I didn't lose myself in the relationship or in him, as I had done in my past. I saw me...a different me, though.
So what happened? Although our friendship remains, the relationship eventually dissolved. There were differences that neither of us were ready to outgrow, or better yet, admit if we wanted to outgrow. I've come away knowing more about myself, though. There will always be a part of me that will give credit to him for inspiring me to love so freely--without any inhibitions. That's a loving friendship that many people spend their life chasing.
A few months ago, Michael shared with me that he is in a relationship and thinks that he has found the woman that he wants to marry. Even though I know with every fiber of my being that he is not the husband that God has chosen for me, I felt a little disappointed...as if I had failed at something. Then I remembered something that I would always tell myself: perhaps God wanted our paths to cross to give an example of true love and friendship. My friend Shawntay shared something with me years ago written by T.D. Jakes--he talked about sort of celebrating moments like this. Being thankful for seasons--everyone is not meant to stay in your life forever. I know that it's okay to celebrate love when it's here, but also it's okay to let it go when you have to. More importantly, I know that it's okay to expect love to make me feel a certain way the next time it comes around. My eyes and ears are open. My heart is ready...
Typically, I would try to find the best way to craft each line in my post--I worry about the audience that reads my blog. Because I'm simply "collecting my thoughts", I won't worry about the particulars if you promise to do the same :)) .
I guess I am human, afterall.
*Exhale*
Saying Goodbye
During the last quarter of the school year, I decided to have my class write personal narrative stories. One of the strategies that we focused on as writers was the technique of zooming in on a "small moment" in time. We studied how other writers craft small moments into longer pieces--sort of like describing a scene in a movie.
Being the natural storytellers that they are, they did a beautiful job with their pieces! We spent the last week of the school year publishing. Normally, I would start the year off with personal narratives, but I decided to close the year with this type of writing. I'm so glad I did! There were pieces that made us laugh, some that made us cringe, a few that made us hold on to every little detail...I'm so glad that we spent our last days before summer sharing stories that are so close to our hearts.
The kids inspired me to finally pen part of the story about my stepfather's death. I've tried several times to write it in years past, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. More and more I saw them take risks in their writing...why couldn't I? I shared with them how hard it had been for me in the past to write about this topic.
This piece is simply a snapshot in time. It only describes the day (moment) that I found out about my stepfather passing away. I do plan to write about the accident, but this was my starting point. What started off as being a piece to model for my students in writers workshop became somewhat of a personal challenge for me--I'm glad that I'm able to refer to it as an accomplishment.
Saying Goodbye
When I was seven years old, I was involved in a traumatic car accident when my stepfather, Arthur Shubrick, fell asleep at the wheel and ran off the road into the path of another vehicle. My cousin Tabatha (who we call “Tapa”), only nine months older than me, was also in the vehicle. My recovery time in the hospital was nearly two months. Only a few memories about that experience are clear. I had probably been in the hospital for almost a week (it seemed) when I found out that “Shubrick” (as we liked to call him) did not survive the car crash. I think I will always remember that moment as if it happened yesterday.
My mom was visiting with Tapa and me. She was sitting on the edge of my bed as we talked. Her closeness always allowed me to smell the sweet of her perfume, even after she left. It was always easy for her to make us smile. That day, she brought in our favorite chips, Cheese Puffs. I loved the way they tasted, but after eating too many, I couldn’t feel my teeth come together! I had to use my finger as a toothpick! As we talked and told jokes to help us forget about not being home, the loud ringing of the phone brought us back to the reality of the cold hospital room. It was near my bed. Mom picked up the brown phone from the receiver and put it to her ear in slow motion. “Hello”, she answered in a whispered tone. “Uh, huh. Yes, I understand. Uh, huh.” I sat stone-still and chewed slowly, pretending not to listen to her conversation. After a few more “uh, huhs”, my mom thanked the caller and slowly returned the phone to receiver.
A few moments of silence passed. All three of us seemed to be frozen in position as if we were waiting on someone to pick up where we left off. The crackle of my mom’s voice made me nervous.
“Um”, she started, clearing her throat. “I have something to tell y’all.”
I started in on a new cheese puff, careful not to crunch too loudly. “Shubrick did not make it through the car wreck. He died.”
My mouth stopped moving. My tongue froze and pressed the cheese puff against the roof of my mouth. I felt it disintegrating on my tongue, getting soggier with every microsecond that passed—that’s how time seemed to pass. I forced myself to start chewing, but only to avoid saying anything. A painful knot in my throat would not let me swallow the cheesy blob with ease. After what seemed an eternity, the words my mom said made sense. I pulled my knees in closer to my chest to give myself a cradle. My mom moved in closer to me, but I couldn’t smell her perfume anymore. The room was stale and cold. I could only feel the coldness of the sheets against the goose bumps that covered my body.
“Are you okay?” my mom asked, putting her arm around me.
“Yes,” I lied. Tapa sat with tears in her eyes, motionless. I felt guilty because my tears were stuck somewhere in my body, which probably made Mom believe me about being okay. I wanted to be strong for her. “What happened?” I nudged on, barely able to get the words out of my mouth.
“Shubrick fell asleep while driving and crashed into another car…head on. He broke his neck after hitting the steering wheel really hard and the doctors couldn’t save him.”
I began to sob, uncontrollably. My knee-cradle fell apart. Mom cried with me as she pulled me in closer to her. Her words, “the doctors couldn’t save him”, stung. It hurt more knowing that I would never see the father that I longed for, ever again.
Being the natural storytellers that they are, they did a beautiful job with their pieces! We spent the last week of the school year publishing. Normally, I would start the year off with personal narratives, but I decided to close the year with this type of writing. I'm so glad I did! There were pieces that made us laugh, some that made us cringe, a few that made us hold on to every little detail...I'm so glad that we spent our last days before summer sharing stories that are so close to our hearts.
The kids inspired me to finally pen part of the story about my stepfather's death. I've tried several times to write it in years past, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. More and more I saw them take risks in their writing...why couldn't I? I shared with them how hard it had been for me in the past to write about this topic.
This piece is simply a snapshot in time. It only describes the day (moment) that I found out about my stepfather passing away. I do plan to write about the accident, but this was my starting point. What started off as being a piece to model for my students in writers workshop became somewhat of a personal challenge for me--I'm glad that I'm able to refer to it as an accomplishment.
Saying Goodbye
When I was seven years old, I was involved in a traumatic car accident when my stepfather, Arthur Shubrick, fell asleep at the wheel and ran off the road into the path of another vehicle. My cousin Tabatha (who we call “Tapa”), only nine months older than me, was also in the vehicle. My recovery time in the hospital was nearly two months. Only a few memories about that experience are clear. I had probably been in the hospital for almost a week (it seemed) when I found out that “Shubrick” (as we liked to call him) did not survive the car crash. I think I will always remember that moment as if it happened yesterday.
My mom was visiting with Tapa and me. She was sitting on the edge of my bed as we talked. Her closeness always allowed me to smell the sweet of her perfume, even after she left. It was always easy for her to make us smile. That day, she brought in our favorite chips, Cheese Puffs. I loved the way they tasted, but after eating too many, I couldn’t feel my teeth come together! I had to use my finger as a toothpick! As we talked and told jokes to help us forget about not being home, the loud ringing of the phone brought us back to the reality of the cold hospital room. It was near my bed. Mom picked up the brown phone from the receiver and put it to her ear in slow motion. “Hello”, she answered in a whispered tone. “Uh, huh. Yes, I understand. Uh, huh.” I sat stone-still and chewed slowly, pretending not to listen to her conversation. After a few more “uh, huhs”, my mom thanked the caller and slowly returned the phone to receiver.
A few moments of silence passed. All three of us seemed to be frozen in position as if we were waiting on someone to pick up where we left off. The crackle of my mom’s voice made me nervous.
“Um”, she started, clearing her throat. “I have something to tell y’all.”
I started in on a new cheese puff, careful not to crunch too loudly. “Shubrick did not make it through the car wreck. He died.”
My mouth stopped moving. My tongue froze and pressed the cheese puff against the roof of my mouth. I felt it disintegrating on my tongue, getting soggier with every microsecond that passed—that’s how time seemed to pass. I forced myself to start chewing, but only to avoid saying anything. A painful knot in my throat would not let me swallow the cheesy blob with ease. After what seemed an eternity, the words my mom said made sense. I pulled my knees in closer to my chest to give myself a cradle. My mom moved in closer to me, but I couldn’t smell her perfume anymore. The room was stale and cold. I could only feel the coldness of the sheets against the goose bumps that covered my body.
“Are you okay?” my mom asked, putting her arm around me.
“Yes,” I lied. Tapa sat with tears in her eyes, motionless. I felt guilty because my tears were stuck somewhere in my body, which probably made Mom believe me about being okay. I wanted to be strong for her. “What happened?” I nudged on, barely able to get the words out of my mouth.
“Shubrick fell asleep while driving and crashed into another car…head on. He broke his neck after hitting the steering wheel really hard and the doctors couldn’t save him.”
I began to sob, uncontrollably. My knee-cradle fell apart. Mom cried with me as she pulled me in closer to her. Her words, “the doctors couldn’t save him”, stung. It hurt more knowing that I would never see the father that I longed for, ever again.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Childhood Innocence
When I was younger, Chuck E. Cheese was known as "Showbiz Pizza". It was the one destination that every kid dreamed of visiting.
I never had the chance to go to "Showbiz" as a child because it was so expensive--my mom could not afford to take my two sisters and I. I remember visiting my aunt Renae one summer, who lived just around the corner from Showbiz (within walking distance). My cousin Will and I decided that it would be fun to go there just once, even if we didn't have enough money for games. My aunt never minded us taking walks around the neighborhood or to the park. We thought that it was safe enough, since we were still close to the house.
Will scraped up the change he had hidden in the back of his sock drawer. We both agreed that Will would be in charge of telling his mom where we were going. With a "Mom, we're-going-out-to-play-and-we'll-be-right-up-the street", Will grabbed my arm, which jerked me forward, and we both bolted out the back door, around the oak tree,and through the iron fence. Great. Only minutes away from Showbiz!
It took all my strength to open the glass door, but once I got inside, I was captivated. My jaw dropped. It took a few seconds for my breathing to slow down. Will and I both glanced at each other with that "Aw, Man!" look in our eyes. We grabbed for each others hand and walked quickly around every inch of that place, while trying to remain inconspicous. We didn't wanna stick out like a sore thumb. After what seemed like an eternity of walking, our sneakers hugged our feet a little harder.
Now, I played games before for a quarter on the Pac-Man video game at Airhart's Corner Market down the street from my grandma's old house in Pinehurst. Sure, we could buy candy and lemon-frosted cookies for a penny, but the store only had room for one game machine. At Showbiz, games lined the walls like wallpaper, lights were flashing, machines were beeping, children were laughing and screaming, the smell of pizza wafted through the air, and the spotlight shown on prizes that kids wanted to win. At Airhartks, the only things you could count on were cheap snacks, and opportunities to get better and better at Pac-Man.
"That was fun! You wanna share a soda before we go?", Will asked as he emptied the change from his pocket.
"Yeah, let's get grape."
We took turns sipping our Welch's grape soda as we walked back home, our steps in sync with each other, avoiding the "cracks" in the sidewalk.
"I can't wait to go back" I said, reaching for the cup.
"Next time, we gone have enough money to play every game in there, Will said with conviction. That way, we can laugh and scream like the other kids in there!"
It wasn't hard for me to buy in..."Yeah, that'll be so fun! As we rounded the corner, I could see the oak tree in my aunt's backyard. "Hey, you want the last sip?," I asked, knowing the cup was empty.
"Yeah, tha-," Will started as I took off running towards my aunt's backyard.
"Hey, come back here!" he shouted after me.
I was long gone.
************************************************************************************
After leaving the library today, I asked Alani if she wanted to go to Chuck E. Cheese. As if one cue, she cups her cheeks with her hands, starts running in place, and begins to squeal with delight.
"Mommy, you're the best mommy in the world!"
As I sit here with Alani, I think about how accessible the former "Showbiz" (Chuck E. Cheese) is now for families. In terms of locale, I wish there was more than one in Columbia. In terms of affordability, it's pretty reasonable (at least the games are).
The bells, flashing lights, kids laughing and screaming, and smell of good food is all too familiar. Nostalgic, to an extent. What's funny is that every year Alani asks to have her birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese or even just to visit, I smile with a cringe in my stomach. I guess I'm holding on to hope that she'll choose a place less...well, less animated. Some place more intimate. Oh, well--wishful thinking, I guess.
From my table, I look out into the crowd and spot Alani sitting next to a childhood favorite: Barney. They're both rockin' along. She then stretches her arm out, puts it around Barney, and lays her head on his hard plastic shoulder. I couldn't hold back my smile. When the ride was over, she turns to Barney and hugs him, jumps off the ride, and runs over to me smiling, with her almost-toothless grin. I smile back at her, grateful for these innocent, childish moments that I get to witness.
Alani thinks I'm the best mommy in the world but I know that I'm the luckiest mommy in the world.
I never had the chance to go to "Showbiz" as a child because it was so expensive--my mom could not afford to take my two sisters and I. I remember visiting my aunt Renae one summer, who lived just around the corner from Showbiz (within walking distance). My cousin Will and I decided that it would be fun to go there just once, even if we didn't have enough money for games. My aunt never minded us taking walks around the neighborhood or to the park. We thought that it was safe enough, since we were still close to the house.
Will scraped up the change he had hidden in the back of his sock drawer. We both agreed that Will would be in charge of telling his mom where we were going. With a "Mom, we're-going-out-to-play-and-we'll-be-right-up-the street", Will grabbed my arm, which jerked me forward, and we both bolted out the back door, around the oak tree,and through the iron fence. Great. Only minutes away from Showbiz!
It took all my strength to open the glass door, but once I got inside, I was captivated. My jaw dropped. It took a few seconds for my breathing to slow down. Will and I both glanced at each other with that "Aw, Man!" look in our eyes. We grabbed for each others hand and walked quickly around every inch of that place, while trying to remain inconspicous. We didn't wanna stick out like a sore thumb. After what seemed like an eternity of walking, our sneakers hugged our feet a little harder.
Now, I played games before for a quarter on the Pac-Man video game at Airhart's Corner Market down the street from my grandma's old house in Pinehurst. Sure, we could buy candy and lemon-frosted cookies for a penny, but the store only had room for one game machine. At Showbiz, games lined the walls like wallpaper, lights were flashing, machines were beeping, children were laughing and screaming, the smell of pizza wafted through the air, and the spotlight shown on prizes that kids wanted to win. At Airhartks, the only things you could count on were cheap snacks, and opportunities to get better and better at Pac-Man.
"That was fun! You wanna share a soda before we go?", Will asked as he emptied the change from his pocket.
"Yeah, let's get grape."
We took turns sipping our Welch's grape soda as we walked back home, our steps in sync with each other, avoiding the "cracks" in the sidewalk.
"I can't wait to go back" I said, reaching for the cup.
"Next time, we gone have enough money to play every game in there, Will said with conviction. That way, we can laugh and scream like the other kids in there!"
It wasn't hard for me to buy in..."Yeah, that'll be so fun! As we rounded the corner, I could see the oak tree in my aunt's backyard. "Hey, you want the last sip?," I asked, knowing the cup was empty.
"Yeah, tha-," Will started as I took off running towards my aunt's backyard.
"Hey, come back here!" he shouted after me.
I was long gone.
************************************************************************************
After leaving the library today, I asked Alani if she wanted to go to Chuck E. Cheese. As if one cue, she cups her cheeks with her hands, starts running in place, and begins to squeal with delight.
"Mommy, you're the best mommy in the world!"
As I sit here with Alani, I think about how accessible the former "Showbiz" (Chuck E. Cheese) is now for families. In terms of locale, I wish there was more than one in Columbia. In terms of affordability, it's pretty reasonable (at least the games are).
The bells, flashing lights, kids laughing and screaming, and smell of good food is all too familiar. Nostalgic, to an extent. What's funny is that every year Alani asks to have her birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese or even just to visit, I smile with a cringe in my stomach. I guess I'm holding on to hope that she'll choose a place less...well, less animated. Some place more intimate. Oh, well--wishful thinking, I guess.
From my table, I look out into the crowd and spot Alani sitting next to a childhood favorite: Barney. They're both rockin' along. She then stretches her arm out, puts it around Barney, and lays her head on his hard plastic shoulder. I couldn't hold back my smile. When the ride was over, she turns to Barney and hugs him, jumps off the ride, and runs over to me smiling, with her almost-toothless grin. I smile back at her, grateful for these innocent, childish moments that I get to witness.
Alani thinks I'm the best mommy in the world but I know that I'm the luckiest mommy in the world.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Curricular Heaven
I'm in the middle of finishing up my narrative reports and I needed a mental break. Today could not go without being appreciated (at least in print, for now).
Today, I was in “curricular heaven,” as Heidi Mills would say. My students were working hard on their cost analysis and revisions on their house project designs. I was nervous about this project because of how intense it is--not just the math, but because it will test the students' (as well as my self) level of patience and endurance. I know that they will become better mathematicians and learners because of it.
Despite the few kids who have had emotional breakdowns because of the miscues in their calculations, the need to revise, and going considerably over their budget of $150,000, they are bouncing back pretty well. It felt good to look around and see my students paired off, or in small groups, consulting with each other about their cost analyses and floor plans. They learn so much from each other. Sometimes I feel like I don’t appreciate moments like these enough.
Today, we also kicked off our poetry unit nicely by discussing "what is poetry?" There were a variety of responses: "it can be about anything; it tells stories; they rhyme (sometimes); they sometimes have a certain pattern; songs, etc. For homework, I asked the kids to bring in any piece of writing that they considered to be "poetry". We shared a piece of writing of our choice and talked about why we each think it is poetry. I was so glad to leave it as an open invitation. We shared everything from rap, songs from different genres, poetry written by my students, Maya Angelou, Shel Silverstein poems, Jack Prelutzsky poems, and other poems from authors not that well-known. I shared Tupac's poem, "The Rose That Grew From Concrete."
I will never forget the look on a few of my kids' faces when I told them that my poem was by Tupac. Only a handful of them know who he is, a couple of them had only heard of Tupac-one student thought he was still alive (I wish!) I shared with them that many people only know one side of Shakur's life--that he was a rapper and actor. Some people call him a gangta rapper. I was glad to share with them things that not everyone knows--that Tupac was a social activist (from a family of Black Panthers), poet, rapper, and actor. He attended a school for the arts in Maryland and studied jazz, poetry and other music forms.
I was surprised by how engaged my students were, especially the boys--historically, I have known boys to shy away from the word "poetry". They know that I appreciate their interests, unlike some of the teachers that taught me poetry. I shared with them my aversion to poetry at a younger age, simply because poetry was defined for me. Meanings to poems I read were prescribed. We never had opportunities to just "celebrate" written and spoken word as an art-form. Now I wish I did this regularly, like my friend Tim, who builds in language appreciation everyday.
Up next: "Who" decides what poetry is? They already understand that some writing is considered "traditional" poetry, and some isn't considered to be "real" poetry at all. So our next discussion will be, "whose voices are being heard, and whose voices are being silenced as a result of how "poetry" gets defined?" I am so blessed to have this group of students and to teach in a place where teaching what "matters" is expected and appreciated. Critical thinking and democracy in the classroom is so underrated—what would happen if our kids didn’t ask important questions like the latter (“whose voice is being silenced?”)? My prediction is that eventually "their" voices could be the ones subject to not being heard.
Today, I was in “curricular heaven,” as Heidi Mills would say. My students were working hard on their cost analysis and revisions on their house project designs. I was nervous about this project because of how intense it is--not just the math, but because it will test the students' (as well as my self) level of patience and endurance. I know that they will become better mathematicians and learners because of it.
Despite the few kids who have had emotional breakdowns because of the miscues in their calculations, the need to revise, and going considerably over their budget of $150,000, they are bouncing back pretty well. It felt good to look around and see my students paired off, or in small groups, consulting with each other about their cost analyses and floor plans. They learn so much from each other. Sometimes I feel like I don’t appreciate moments like these enough.
Today, we also kicked off our poetry unit nicely by discussing "what is poetry?" There were a variety of responses: "it can be about anything; it tells stories; they rhyme (sometimes); they sometimes have a certain pattern; songs, etc. For homework, I asked the kids to bring in any piece of writing that they considered to be "poetry". We shared a piece of writing of our choice and talked about why we each think it is poetry. I was so glad to leave it as an open invitation. We shared everything from rap, songs from different genres, poetry written by my students, Maya Angelou, Shel Silverstein poems, Jack Prelutzsky poems, and other poems from authors not that well-known. I shared Tupac's poem, "The Rose That Grew From Concrete."
I will never forget the look on a few of my kids' faces when I told them that my poem was by Tupac. Only a handful of them know who he is, a couple of them had only heard of Tupac-one student thought he was still alive (I wish!) I shared with them that many people only know one side of Shakur's life--that he was a rapper and actor. Some people call him a gangta rapper. I was glad to share with them things that not everyone knows--that Tupac was a social activist (from a family of Black Panthers), poet, rapper, and actor. He attended a school for the arts in Maryland and studied jazz, poetry and other music forms.
I was surprised by how engaged my students were, especially the boys--historically, I have known boys to shy away from the word "poetry". They know that I appreciate their interests, unlike some of the teachers that taught me poetry. I shared with them my aversion to poetry at a younger age, simply because poetry was defined for me. Meanings to poems I read were prescribed. We never had opportunities to just "celebrate" written and spoken word as an art-form. Now I wish I did this regularly, like my friend Tim, who builds in language appreciation everyday.
Up next: "Who" decides what poetry is? They already understand that some writing is considered "traditional" poetry, and some isn't considered to be "real" poetry at all. So our next discussion will be, "whose voices are being heard, and whose voices are being silenced as a result of how "poetry" gets defined?" I am so blessed to have this group of students and to teach in a place where teaching what "matters" is expected and appreciated. Critical thinking and democracy in the classroom is so underrated—what would happen if our kids didn’t ask important questions like the latter (“whose voice is being silenced?”)? My prediction is that eventually "their" voices could be the ones subject to not being heard.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
15 days ago, my mom got her life back. Correction, she took her life back. For over half of her 49 years on this earth, my mother has smoked. When she woke up and had a cup of coffee, she smoked. After dinner, she smoked. On her way to work in the car, she smoked. In the company of other smokers, she smoked. And when it was "payin' the bills time", she would spread out her bills across the kitchen table, she'd have her file folder, checkbook, a pen, and of course, a pack of Kool Filter Kings in the soft pack with an ashtray on the side. The smoke screen would be so thick in the kitchen that you would need a knife just to cut through it!
As children, we just accepted my mom's habit as that. We were taught not to question grownups, and furthermore, we considered it to be the norm, no matter how awful the cigarette smoke smelled. As we got older (and alot bolder, yet still respectful), we began to pressure my mom about quitting her smoking habit. It went from, "if you don't like it, go in a different room" to, "ride in a separate car, then!" (we were adults), or even, "don't start!" We've tried bribery, laying on the guilt trips, lectures, logic, threats (to no avail), and even plain old beggin' and pleadin'! A couple of times, my mom entertained the idea of quitting. We'd settle for anything--even if it was a promise to "think about it." Then came children of our own.
Living around second-hand smoke was something that we became used to as children living with my mom. After having children of our own, pressuring my mom to quit smoking became a hot topic. We were all more informed about the dangers of second-hand smoke and we knew that we did not want our children to be exposed to it. It was hard having those hard conversations with my sisters without my mom being present--"we have the health of our children to think about";"why is she being so selfish?";"who's going to talk to her this time because we have to do something?" We were all on an emotional rollercoaster.
I remember one night I dreamt of my mom. I was pregnant with Alani at the time, living in Charlotte. The details are pretty sketchy now, but I do remember that my mom died as a result of smoking. I remember waking up, startled, and I just started crying. Uncontrollably. It had to have been about 2 or 3 a.m. I dialed my mom's number at least 2 times before I finally decided to let it ring. "Mom, it's me," I whimpered. "Please stop smoking. Please stop smoking." I couldn't find any other words. She couldn't either--we both cried over the phone. All I could think of was the fact that I wanted my mom to be on this Earth for my daughter--I wanted her to be here for me, too, but what about Alani? Couldn't she think of anyone besides herself?
I'm not sure what the one thing was that made my mom finally decide to quit smoking for good. It could have been watching her youngest brother suffer and succomb to lung cancer this year. It could have been her wanting to be here longer for her grandchildren. It could have been the pressure we've put on her for years. It could have been that she just wants to be healthier. It could also be all of these things. It really doesn't matter. When she called me and let me know that she set the date for November 4th to have a procedure done that would help her quit smoking, I knew that she had taken a huge step to get her life back. I admit, I held my breath until then--partly because I wanted this to "NOT" be a dream; the other reason was because she was determined to have a "smoke-fest" until then (just kidding!). I'm so proud of her and I admire her for conquering her addiction--I now realize that it was not easy for her.
I plan to write a separate blog about the day my mom got her procedure done--we were all with her at the time. I knew that November 4th would be a day that I would write about--I feel blessed to have my mom here to read it.
As children, we just accepted my mom's habit as that. We were taught not to question grownups, and furthermore, we considered it to be the norm, no matter how awful the cigarette smoke smelled. As we got older (and alot bolder, yet still respectful), we began to pressure my mom about quitting her smoking habit. It went from, "if you don't like it, go in a different room" to, "ride in a separate car, then!" (we were adults), or even, "don't start!" We've tried bribery, laying on the guilt trips, lectures, logic, threats (to no avail), and even plain old beggin' and pleadin'! A couple of times, my mom entertained the idea of quitting. We'd settle for anything--even if it was a promise to "think about it." Then came children of our own.
Living around second-hand smoke was something that we became used to as children living with my mom. After having children of our own, pressuring my mom to quit smoking became a hot topic. We were all more informed about the dangers of second-hand smoke and we knew that we did not want our children to be exposed to it. It was hard having those hard conversations with my sisters without my mom being present--"we have the health of our children to think about";"why is she being so selfish?";"who's going to talk to her this time because we have to do something?" We were all on an emotional rollercoaster.
I remember one night I dreamt of my mom. I was pregnant with Alani at the time, living in Charlotte. The details are pretty sketchy now, but I do remember that my mom died as a result of smoking. I remember waking up, startled, and I just started crying. Uncontrollably. It had to have been about 2 or 3 a.m. I dialed my mom's number at least 2 times before I finally decided to let it ring. "Mom, it's me," I whimpered. "Please stop smoking. Please stop smoking." I couldn't find any other words. She couldn't either--we both cried over the phone. All I could think of was the fact that I wanted my mom to be on this Earth for my daughter--I wanted her to be here for me, too, but what about Alani? Couldn't she think of anyone besides herself?
I'm not sure what the one thing was that made my mom finally decide to quit smoking for good. It could have been watching her youngest brother suffer and succomb to lung cancer this year. It could have been her wanting to be here longer for her grandchildren. It could have been the pressure we've put on her for years. It could have been that she just wants to be healthier. It could also be all of these things. It really doesn't matter. When she called me and let me know that she set the date for November 4th to have a procedure done that would help her quit smoking, I knew that she had taken a huge step to get her life back. I admit, I held my breath until then--partly because I wanted this to "NOT" be a dream; the other reason was because she was determined to have a "smoke-fest" until then (just kidding!). I'm so proud of her and I admire her for conquering her addiction--I now realize that it was not easy for her.
I plan to write a separate blog about the day my mom got her procedure done--we were all with her at the time. I knew that November 4th would be a day that I would write about--I feel blessed to have my mom here to read it.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Breaking The Ice
For most of my life, practically, I've been in denial about being so much like my mom (in some ways). Independent attitude. Overprotective. Apprehensive about taking risks. Analytical and very methodical about pretty much every little thing. Don't get me wrong, I love my mom for who she is and how she is, but I find it hard not being like her in a lot of ways. This explains why it took months for me to publish my first blog. I wanted to wait for something inspiring to write about. Okay...maybe I'm fudging a little. I was a little nervous about going public with my thoughts. The very thoughts that sometimes make it in my journal, go to bed with me at night, rest on my heart, and those that I speak about in some of my prayers.
My friends Tim and Lisa both inspired me to start this blog--there's just something about putting your ordinary thoughts out there. Not necessarily for fame or admiration. In a way, it allows me to purge my emotions in public.
So here goes...
My friends Tim and Lisa both inspired me to start this blog--there's just something about putting your ordinary thoughts out there. Not necessarily for fame or admiration. In a way, it allows me to purge my emotions in public.
So here goes...
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