Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Kind in my Mind
So I'm having this thought right this minute which is probably going to sound creepy when I put it in print but is kind in my mind. I'm sitting in the library watching all of you check each others' blogs and your eyes are dancing from word to word as they cross the screen to get from one idea to the next. Occasionally there is a sigh and I know a love story has struck a cord with you or there is a bark or a hoot and I know you've happened on something funny enough to make you laugh. And you're leaving comments behind that are substantive and complimentary and helpful to the writers whose pages you visit. And it's lovely for me to see...
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Writing Reflection: Joy Squared
Writing makes my world go round. I've told my students this many times but I think they think I'm kidding. I think they think I say it because, as an English teacher, I have to impress on them the importance of communication skills. That is part of it but not the largest part.
The largest part has to do with joy and joy, I'm afraid, isn't an everyday feeling for everyone so I grab it whenever and wherever I can. These past few weeks there has been joy in watching my students delight themselves with word love and character development and plot building. Earlier today, after giving her some feedback, one of my student's said, "Oh, I can see it all in my head now; I need to go write it down fast" and she left with a smile lighting her face. She exhibited such abandon to her own creativity and writing, it left me with a thrill and a chill.
And there is, too, the joy of being able to play seriously with my own writing during the school day. There are two benefits of this. One, it models my writing process to my students and proves my willingness to do myself what I ask of them. Two, truth be told, as much ego as I derive from writing, the school year affords little time to engage and invest in it as I would like. This unit has given me an opportunity to double dip... teaching and writing and writing and teaching all at once.
For me, doing the writing activities was useful because they allowed me to brainstorm a lot of starts for different creative pieces. My favorite were the flash stories and I got some good writing out of my word list. The flash poems were difficult for me because I don't consider myself to be a particular poetic thinker (I think all the swearing in my head gets in the way).
In any case, I want to thank the excellent young writers in Room 311 for allowing me the quiet space and creative energy necessary to get some serious writing done. I'll leave you with one of those flash poems that I never planned on having anyone see in print and that I'm totally uncomfortable posting because, after all, my students included risk in their definition of creativity.
A Chair -- A Corner -- An Empty Room
A child climbs up and in and changes everything.
Like an oven ticks alive, suddenly there is heat
The cushion sinks to her shape in memory of
The last time and the last time and the last time.
She rubs her small finger over the worn weave
And the weave remembers the loneliness of being a single thread
Before the loom.
The soles of the girls shoes barely clear the cushion.
She tucks her feet beneath her and curls into sleep.
Is it the girl that is dear?
It is the girl in the chair.
The largest part has to do with joy and joy, I'm afraid, isn't an everyday feeling for everyone so I grab it whenever and wherever I can. These past few weeks there has been joy in watching my students delight themselves with word love and character development and plot building. Earlier today, after giving her some feedback, one of my student's said, "Oh, I can see it all in my head now; I need to go write it down fast" and she left with a smile lighting her face. She exhibited such abandon to her own creativity and writing, it left me with a thrill and a chill.
And there is, too, the joy of being able to play seriously with my own writing during the school day. There are two benefits of this. One, it models my writing process to my students and proves my willingness to do myself what I ask of them. Two, truth be told, as much ego as I derive from writing, the school year affords little time to engage and invest in it as I would like. This unit has given me an opportunity to double dip... teaching and writing and writing and teaching all at once.
For me, doing the writing activities was useful because they allowed me to brainstorm a lot of starts for different creative pieces. My favorite were the flash stories and I got some good writing out of my word list. The flash poems were difficult for me because I don't consider myself to be a particular poetic thinker (I think all the swearing in my head gets in the way).
In any case, I want to thank the excellent young writers in Room 311 for allowing me the quiet space and creative energy necessary to get some serious writing done. I'll leave you with one of those flash poems that I never planned on having anyone see in print and that I'm totally uncomfortable posting because, after all, my students included risk in their definition of creativity.
A Chair -- A Corner -- An Empty Room
A child climbs up and in and changes everything.
Like an oven ticks alive, suddenly there is heat
The cushion sinks to her shape in memory of
The last time and the last time and the last time.
She rubs her small finger over the worn weave
And the weave remembers the loneliness of being a single thread
Before the loom.
The soles of the girls shoes barely clear the cushion.
She tucks her feet beneath her and curls into sleep.
Is it the girl that is dear?
It is the girl in the chair.
Polished Piece: A Pregnancy Scare
Carrie’s sisters had finally gone, giving her a rare moment alone in the bedroom the three girls shared. In her socks, she slid down the hallway silently, holding her breath as tightly as she gripped her backpack. She peaked around the door to the living room. There, her exhausted single mother had fallen asleep on the couch that doubled as her bed in their tiny one-bedroom apartment. Her face, warm but lined and weary by day, was smooth in sleep, lit by the dancing shadows cast by the telenovela unfolding on the muted television.
Carrie cringed and hoped she would not be the cause of even greater burden to this woman she loved; this woman who had traversed the Devil’s Highway with her five children. Mami carried little Estrellita and Carrie’s oldest brother, Jose, carried the baby: the one whose name they did not say, the one who did not make it. So much at stake so her children could live the American Dream. Carrie did not know the baby’s name, but she had seen the sadness enter the woman’s eyes when people spoke in hushed tones of that boy who died from lack of clean water, an abundance of rotten food and a bout of diarrhea that left him sitting in his own filth when there was no time to stop and change his diaper.
Jose had whispered to her once that he had been so physically wasted from plodding eternally through the desert that he had no real idea how long the boy he carried was dead before they stopped for rest and he realized the goneness. The hollowness in his voice and the vacancy in his eyes told Carrie that Jose would never forgive himself for not having recognized it--felt it--the very moment the boy had died. The guilt would plague him always; Jose never again made eye contact with Carrie after that conversation; he left home not long after and not long after that stopped calling. One dead, one gone: her mami had lost two sons coming to Chicago from Mexico. Was it her boys that she dreamed about now, Carrie wondered, this woman whose every waking action was to benefit her children?
Needing to know one way or another before her sisters returned, Carrie shut and locked the bathroom door. She caught sight of her own image in the smoky glass and paused, remembering the night with Paulo: loving it then, hating it now. She carefully removed from her back pack the brown paper sack that had weighed 100 pounds as she carried it home from school. Fireworks on the Fourth of July made less noise than opening the bag and pulling from it the home pregnancy test that Paulo had shoved at her in lunch. She spread the directions out in the dry sink as a formality; she had danced these steps before.
Carrie had gulped down several jaritos at dinner; mami had wondered aloud why she was so thirsty, concerned about dehydration. The woman was always concerned about her, making up ailments to cluck over. She’d held it for hours through dinner and then for hours until her sisters had gone to their movie. Ironically, when she finally squatted over that tiny stick of fate, her pelvic muscles were cramped so tightly no urine would come. She turned on the faucet and the saturated directions folded in on themselves in the basin. Startled by the spasm in her bladder, Carrie peed all over her hand before moving the stick into the stream.
She was supposed to wait three minutes for the chemical reaction that would seal her destiny, but she couldn’t take her eyes off of the testing stick. It is reasonable to say that she aged three years in those three minutes and her mind’s eye wandered three days, three months and three decades down the road of what her life could be. She might end up just like her mother, doing shift work in the garment district and cleaning houses in her off hours and still never having enough money, enough food, enough sleep. Mami had only love in abundance. This would kill her. Turning old in her mind, Carrie had lost focus; she jerked her attention back to the present. Her breath caught, and her eyes filled with tears as she read the indicator.
Carrie cringed and hoped she would not be the cause of even greater burden to this woman she loved; this woman who had traversed the Devil’s Highway with her five children. Mami carried little Estrellita and Carrie’s oldest brother, Jose, carried the baby: the one whose name they did not say, the one who did not make it. So much at stake so her children could live the American Dream. Carrie did not know the baby’s name, but she had seen the sadness enter the woman’s eyes when people spoke in hushed tones of that boy who died from lack of clean water, an abundance of rotten food and a bout of diarrhea that left him sitting in his own filth when there was no time to stop and change his diaper.
Jose had whispered to her once that he had been so physically wasted from plodding eternally through the desert that he had no real idea how long the boy he carried was dead before they stopped for rest and he realized the goneness. The hollowness in his voice and the vacancy in his eyes told Carrie that Jose would never forgive himself for not having recognized it--felt it--the very moment the boy had died. The guilt would plague him always; Jose never again made eye contact with Carrie after that conversation; he left home not long after and not long after that stopped calling. One dead, one gone: her mami had lost two sons coming to Chicago from Mexico. Was it her boys that she dreamed about now, Carrie wondered, this woman whose every waking action was to benefit her children?
Needing to know one way or another before her sisters returned, Carrie shut and locked the bathroom door. She caught sight of her own image in the smoky glass and paused, remembering the night with Paulo: loving it then, hating it now. She carefully removed from her back pack the brown paper sack that had weighed 100 pounds as she carried it home from school. Fireworks on the Fourth of July made less noise than opening the bag and pulling from it the home pregnancy test that Paulo had shoved at her in lunch. She spread the directions out in the dry sink as a formality; she had danced these steps before.
Carrie had gulped down several jaritos at dinner; mami had wondered aloud why she was so thirsty, concerned about dehydration. The woman was always concerned about her, making up ailments to cluck over. She’d held it for hours through dinner and then for hours until her sisters had gone to their movie. Ironically, when she finally squatted over that tiny stick of fate, her pelvic muscles were cramped so tightly no urine would come. She turned on the faucet and the saturated directions folded in on themselves in the basin. Startled by the spasm in her bladder, Carrie peed all over her hand before moving the stick into the stream.
She was supposed to wait three minutes for the chemical reaction that would seal her destiny, but she couldn’t take her eyes off of the testing stick. It is reasonable to say that she aged three years in those three minutes and her mind’s eye wandered three days, three months and three decades down the road of what her life could be. She might end up just like her mother, doing shift work in the garment district and cleaning houses in her off hours and still never having enough money, enough food, enough sleep. Mami had only love in abundance. This would kill her. Turning old in her mind, Carrie had lost focus; she jerked her attention back to the present. Her breath caught, and her eyes filled with tears as she read the indicator.
Book Commentary: If I Grow Up
I am currently reading If I Grow Up by Todd Strasser. His ability to depict urban school situations is solid. In his description of Mr. Brand, the teacher who urges DeShawn to apply to a magnet high school, I recognized some of my own hopes and frustrations for students. Even though the book is set in another city, I believe the plot and characters speak to urban dwellers everywhere. I should mention I have only just begun the book (I'm on page 34), but, at this point Strasser's descriptive writing, realistic dialogue and imaginative plot are engaging to me. The young people in his book sound like the young people I know and that reality isn’t always easy for an author to capture. I recommend this book to my students and anyone else who enjoys young adult literature.
(Strasser, Todd. If I Grow Up. New York, 2009. Print.)
Monday, February 28, 2011
Rough Writing: The Word Slurp
Slurp. Slurp. Slurp. Did he always slurp his soup that way? She couldn't have fallen in love with a man who had no table manners. Could she? Not after growing up in a house with such fastidious parents. But here she was sitting across from someone who had breadcrumbs in his beard and was eating like a convict--one arm laid on the outside of his dish protecting his food and the other shoveling its contents to his mouth only inches away.
"You tricked me," she said. These were the first words either of them had spoken since they sat down to dinner. He was so unused to hearing her voice, he didn't respond, so she said again, "You slob. You tricked me."
When she rose from the table, she knocked her own plate so the last image she had of her marriage was peas rolling this way and that on the worn formica table. She was sorry only that she would not get to the pineapple upside down cake she had made for dessert. In fact, she dumped that cake--now an upside down upside down cake--right onto the kitchen floor before she walked out the door into the cold night air without even grabbing her coat.
And she felt the cold night air on many levels. There was the physical cold she felt as soon as the hot air from her lungs escaped, forming a puff cloud right in front of her face that disappeared as quickly as the stability of her life just had. And there was the emotional cold that grew from her very center out until she felt like a block of ice through and through. The cold felt different to her when she realized she hadn't anywhere to go. Storming out loses all effect when you sneak back in for your purse, keys and phone so she moved to the gate and out into the alley. When she was sure the garage would block his view of her if he cared to look, she stopped to collect her bearings. She was face to face with a metal sign bolted to a utility pole admonishing residents to keep their garbage in the designated bins to guard against the formation of rat warrens.
This was perhaps not the romantic escape she had hoped for--huddling in the winter air next to the trash cans without a coat and no where to go; in the moment, free and scared felt just the same.
"You tricked me," she said. These were the first words either of them had spoken since they sat down to dinner. He was so unused to hearing her voice, he didn't respond, so she said again, "You slob. You tricked me."
When she rose from the table, she knocked her own plate so the last image she had of her marriage was peas rolling this way and that on the worn formica table. She was sorry only that she would not get to the pineapple upside down cake she had made for dessert. In fact, she dumped that cake--now an upside down upside down cake--right onto the kitchen floor before she walked out the door into the cold night air without even grabbing her coat.
And she felt the cold night air on many levels. There was the physical cold she felt as soon as the hot air from her lungs escaped, forming a puff cloud right in front of her face that disappeared as quickly as the stability of her life just had. And there was the emotional cold that grew from her very center out until she felt like a block of ice through and through. The cold felt different to her when she realized she hadn't anywhere to go. Storming out loses all effect when you sneak back in for your purse, keys and phone so she moved to the gate and out into the alley. When she was sure the garage would block his view of her if he cared to look, she stopped to collect her bearings. She was face to face with a metal sign bolted to a utility pole admonishing residents to keep their garbage in the designated bins to guard against the formation of rat warrens.
This was perhaps not the romantic escape she had hoped for--huddling in the winter air next to the trash cans without a coat and no where to go; in the moment, free and scared felt just the same.
Writing Notebook: Weird Thoughts
Wind isn't as sexy or romantic as people think. I mean, when it's really windy--so windy your hair moves--there are leaves and dirt and bugs whipping into your face and your hair actually gets stuck in your lip gloss and your skirt gets plastered between your legs and having a bunch of fabric bunched up in your crotch while you're walking just isn't a good look for anyone.
Welcome!
Dear Readers:
My American Literature students are engaged in a creative writing unit 3rd Quarter and tasked with not only writing but also creating blogs on which they will publish their work. It seems only fair that I do the same. In the coming weeks, like my students, I will post an example of an entry from my writer's notebook, an example of a piece of informal writing, an example of a polished piece of writing, a reflection on my writing process and a commentary about whatever novel I happen to be reading at the time. Maybe I'll go beyond the requirements of the unit and post some additional samples of my writing, as well, but at this point there are no guarantees...
My American Literature students are engaged in a creative writing unit 3rd Quarter and tasked with not only writing but also creating blogs on which they will publish their work. It seems only fair that I do the same. In the coming weeks, like my students, I will post an example of an entry from my writer's notebook, an example of a piece of informal writing, an example of a polished piece of writing, a reflection on my writing process and a commentary about whatever novel I happen to be reading at the time. Maybe I'll go beyond the requirements of the unit and post some additional samples of my writing, as well, but at this point there are no guarantees...
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