A couple of days ago I went to have my hair cut and highlighted as I do every 8 weeks. I decided to have my hair stylist use only red for the highlights. Usually I just have a few red pieces mixed in with brown and blonde, but I was in one of those moods where I crave change without knowing exactly what I want that change to be. Years ago when I was in my 20's and working for a financial consulting firm in Santa Barbara (so long ago now that I frequently refer to it as a previous life), I had a hair stylist who urged me to go red. I wasn't into coloring my hair at the time, so I never did it. Feeling a bit bold, now felt like a good time to try it.
Later that afternoon my 7-year-old son came home from school and launched into a story. About midway through it he finally looked at me, really looked at me, and scrunched up his face like he had just seen the most hideous sight ever. "What did you do to your hair?" he asked. "I don't like it." After this heartwarming declaration, he immediately got up off the couch and proceeded upstairs, getting as far away from me as he possibly could. Hmmm, maybe the red wasn't such a good idea after all.
After spending some time in front of the mirror, I began to think I rather agreed with him. Maybe the red was a little too much. In my early 20's it might have worked. In my late 40's, not so much. I looked . . . old. That definitely was not the look I was going for.
But I can't say I am really upset about it. Live and learn, right? I had finally done what I had thought about doing for years, decades even. So what if it had turned out to be a mistake? Mistakes will be made. Mistakes should be made. Because then you know at least you tried.
I am forever telling my students, particularly when it comes to math problem solving, to try something. So many just sit there and stare at the page, frozen with uncertainty. How many times have I done the same when faced with real life problems? The truth is, though, as long as you sit motionless and in a state of panic or, worse, a state of apathy, there will be no solution. Solutions very rarely, at least in my experience, just magically appear before you. You have to try something first. And yes, that first attempt very well may turn out to be a mistake. You may come up with a ridiculously wrong answer or walk around with ridiculously red hair, but at least you tried something. Now you know one thing that doesn't work. If you think about it, finding what doesn't work isn't really a mistake at all. It is simply a step forward.
Mistakes. Struggle. Failure. These words have come to have
such a negative connotation in our society, and yet it is through our mistakes,
our struggles, our failures even, that we learn, whether it is in math class or
in life. It is through our mistakes that we grow and become more than we
once were. They lead us to some of our greatest successes.
I have made mistakes, many of them.
I will continue to make mistakes, in teaching and in life, but I will
value them for what they truly are: learning
experiences that will lead me to a greater understanding than if I had never
made them in the first place.
Mistakes will be made. And I, for
one, will welcome them.
Saturday, October 4, 2014
Sunday, July 20, 2014
Dad's Four-Letter Word
After living with emphysema for 13 years, my dad passed away on July 13, 2014. He was 87 years old.
When we met with the pastor to discuss Dad's service, he said that he would give people the opportunity to come up and speak. I knew I wanted to say something, but I didn't know what or if I would be able to. I woke up at 3:30 a.m. on the day of his funeral, and words kept flowing through my mind. At 5:00, I decided to get up and write them down. What follows is what I wrote that morning and, thankfully, was able to share with all who had gathered to pay their respects to a great man, Jack Burns, my father.
Those who know me well know I have a bad habit. Actually, I have quite a few, but the one to which I am referring is my tendency to let four-letter words fly on occasion. Those who know my family well also know where I most likely acquired that habit: Dad.
Lately though, there was a particular four-letter word Dad liked to use. That word I can use in front of all of you. It was "love." When it came time to leave after a visit, I would give him a hug goodbye, and he would say, "I love you." When I would call and talk to Mom, he could be heard in the background telling her to tell me he loved me. She would relay back to him that I said I loved him too, and he would respond, "Good."
The thing is, Dad wasn't telling me anything I didn't already know. I don't remember the words being used a lot while I was growing up, but Dad told me he loved me all the time. He said "I love you" when I was a little girl and he taught me to read simple words in the newspaper he was reading. He said "I love you" when he came to school performances and listened to me screech my way through a song on the violin. He said "I love you" when he rushed to my side, white as a sheet, when I broke my leg in the 8th grade. He said "I love you" when he supported my decision to go to college, crying as he left his baby girl so many miles from home and beaming four years later when I received my diploma. He said "I love you" when he walked me down the aisle and later when he held each of my sons, Jared and Jack, in his arms. He said "I love you" every time he made me call when I got home after visiting so he knew I had arrived safely. And he said "I love you" when he wished me a happy birthday every year at exactly 9:05 a.m., the time I was born. No, he didn't need to say he loved me. He had already shown me a million times; there was never a doubt in my mind.
It was that same love that Dad felt for all of us, Mom especially, that kept him going. It gave him the strength he needed to keep fighting even when the simplest of tasks became a struggle. In the end, Dad proved just how powerful love can be.
I will be eternally grateful that [my sister] Katie urged me to come home last Friday. Those last two days were extremely hard, but I am so glad I was here to help take care of Dad and to simply hold his hand. It wasn't much, but I hope he heard loud and clear what I was trying to say: "I love you, too, Dad."
When we met with the pastor to discuss Dad's service, he said that he would give people the opportunity to come up and speak. I knew I wanted to say something, but I didn't know what or if I would be able to. I woke up at 3:30 a.m. on the day of his funeral, and words kept flowing through my mind. At 5:00, I decided to get up and write them down. What follows is what I wrote that morning and, thankfully, was able to share with all who had gathered to pay their respects to a great man, Jack Burns, my father.
******************************
Those who know me well know I have a bad habit. Actually, I have quite a few, but the one to which I am referring is my tendency to let four-letter words fly on occasion. Those who know my family well also know where I most likely acquired that habit: Dad.
Lately though, there was a particular four-letter word Dad liked to use. That word I can use in front of all of you. It was "love." When it came time to leave after a visit, I would give him a hug goodbye, and he would say, "I love you." When I would call and talk to Mom, he could be heard in the background telling her to tell me he loved me. She would relay back to him that I said I loved him too, and he would respond, "Good."
The thing is, Dad wasn't telling me anything I didn't already know. I don't remember the words being used a lot while I was growing up, but Dad told me he loved me all the time. He said "I love you" when I was a little girl and he taught me to read simple words in the newspaper he was reading. He said "I love you" when he came to school performances and listened to me screech my way through a song on the violin. He said "I love you" when he rushed to my side, white as a sheet, when I broke my leg in the 8th grade. He said "I love you" when he supported my decision to go to college, crying as he left his baby girl so many miles from home and beaming four years later when I received my diploma. He said "I love you" when he walked me down the aisle and later when he held each of my sons, Jared and Jack, in his arms. He said "I love you" every time he made me call when I got home after visiting so he knew I had arrived safely. And he said "I love you" when he wished me a happy birthday every year at exactly 9:05 a.m., the time I was born. No, he didn't need to say he loved me. He had already shown me a million times; there was never a doubt in my mind.
It was that same love that Dad felt for all of us, Mom especially, that kept him going. It gave him the strength he needed to keep fighting even when the simplest of tasks became a struggle. In the end, Dad proved just how powerful love can be.
I will be eternally grateful that [my sister] Katie urged me to come home last Friday. Those last two days were extremely hard, but I am so glad I was here to help take care of Dad and to simply hold his hand. It wasn't much, but I hope he heard loud and clear what I was trying to say: "I love you, too, Dad."
Friday, July 11, 2014
Waiting for the Silence
I sit and wait. What I am waiting for exactly, I do not know. No, that is not true. I just don't want to be waiting for it, so I push it as far away from me as I can and pretend it isn't lurking around some not-too-distant dark corner of my future.
Tears gather but I force them back, telling myself to save them for later when I will really need them. And need them I will. There will be dark days ahead, filled with a heavy silence that the world will never quite be able to drown out. There will be an emptiness. No one else will see it, but I know it will be there, and I will carry it around with me the rest of my days.
I remember when my oldest sister died. It's been almost 25 years, but those moments live on inside my mind. My parents, brother-in-law, brother and sisters, and I were all at the hospital. Waiting. Waiting for what we did not want to happen, hoping, praying that by some miracle it would not happen. I recall the nurse saying, "She has a strong heart." Even though she worked in the medical profession, I do not believe she was referring to the organ beating rhythmically inside my sister. Cindy was strong, determined, a fighter, and not ready to leave us. So we waited. Helplessly, we waited, like unwilling witnesses to a natural disaster, wanting to intervene but completely powerless to do so. I'm ashamed to admit, at some point I just wanted the waiting to be over. And then it was.
In the final moments, we knew the fight was over. As the monitor broadcast her decreasing heart rate, I walked to her side, touched her hand, and said goodbye. Then I walked out of the room. I couldn't bear to see her go.
I wasn't prepared for the silence that followed. That heavy, suffocating silence that comes when your world has irrevocably changed. You sense that life is going on around you, but you can't feel it or make sense of it. It's like in the movies when the only thing in focus is the character and everything around them becomes blurry and distorted. Instinctively, you move through your days, responding to people in what you hope to be an appropriate manner. But you are so hollow inside that nothing really sinks in, nothing fills you up, and you believe nothing ever will. Truth is, you are right. There is a part that will remain forever empty.
Today, I am there again. Waiting. Waiting for words I do not want to come. Waiting for a goodbye that I will not be able to bear. I don't know when it's coming. It may be months for all I know. But it's coming. Another natural disaster that I am powerless to stop. Only this time I know what will follow. So wait I will, and save my tears for another day.
Tears gather but I force them back, telling myself to save them for later when I will really need them. And need them I will. There will be dark days ahead, filled with a heavy silence that the world will never quite be able to drown out. There will be an emptiness. No one else will see it, but I know it will be there, and I will carry it around with me the rest of my days.
I remember when my oldest sister died. It's been almost 25 years, but those moments live on inside my mind. My parents, brother-in-law, brother and sisters, and I were all at the hospital. Waiting. Waiting for what we did not want to happen, hoping, praying that by some miracle it would not happen. I recall the nurse saying, "She has a strong heart." Even though she worked in the medical profession, I do not believe she was referring to the organ beating rhythmically inside my sister. Cindy was strong, determined, a fighter, and not ready to leave us. So we waited. Helplessly, we waited, like unwilling witnesses to a natural disaster, wanting to intervene but completely powerless to do so. I'm ashamed to admit, at some point I just wanted the waiting to be over. And then it was.
In the final moments, we knew the fight was over. As the monitor broadcast her decreasing heart rate, I walked to her side, touched her hand, and said goodbye. Then I walked out of the room. I couldn't bear to see her go.
I wasn't prepared for the silence that followed. That heavy, suffocating silence that comes when your world has irrevocably changed. You sense that life is going on around you, but you can't feel it or make sense of it. It's like in the movies when the only thing in focus is the character and everything around them becomes blurry and distorted. Instinctively, you move through your days, responding to people in what you hope to be an appropriate manner. But you are so hollow inside that nothing really sinks in, nothing fills you up, and you believe nothing ever will. Truth is, you are right. There is a part that will remain forever empty.
Today, I am there again. Waiting. Waiting for words I do not want to come. Waiting for a goodbye that I will not be able to bear. I don't know when it's coming. It may be months for all I know. But it's coming. Another natural disaster that I am powerless to stop. Only this time I know what will follow. So wait I will, and save my tears for another day.
Tuesday, July 1, 2014
A House Without a Cat
I don't have a cat.
Which is strange because just yesterday I was awakened before dawn by the sound of raucous meowing. Just yesterday I stroked soft fur covering a little bony body while I spoke gentle words of comfort. Yesterday, I helped my husband guide an apparently disgruntled creature with sharp claws into a cat carrier. And even today, I find cat hair on blankets and floors, and there's still that little dirty spot on the rounded corner of the bathroom wall that she liked to rub against. A food bowl sits empty on the laundry room floor waiting to be filled.
But I don't have a cat.
I can't say it was a shock when my husband called from the vet's office yesterday afternoon to say that Adele's kidneys were failing along with a host of other problems and the vet suggested we have her put to sleep. I had known it was coming. We both had. Or perhaps I should say all three of us had. Adele hadn't been herself lately, jumping up on tables she had never thought to jump on before, following us into rooms but then sitting with her back turned to us like she was in some self-imposed time-out, curling up on the pillow next to the head of my sleeping child instead of staying in her usual spot at the foot of the bed. My husband joked that she was crossing off items on her bucket list. Maybe she was.
There are truths in life that we accept intellectually, but when we are actually confronted by those truths we find ourselves emotionally ill-equipped to deal with them. My husband asked me what I thought we should do. Neither one of us wanted to be the one to make the decision. So we talked around it for a few minutes, silently praying that the other one would be brave enough to say what we both knew needed to be said. In the end, I don't think either one of us said it. It was just understood. At the time, I thought it was the right thing to do. Now I have moments when I'm not so sure. I didn't want her to suffer, but I wonder if she wouldn't have preferred to be at home. I know that is what I would want for myself. To be surrounded by my own things and my own people. To be where all that really matters lives. I am comforted by the thought that my husband, the one who brought her into our home all those years ago, was with her at the end.
As painful as all that was, the hardest part was having to tell our children. They had known Adele all their lives. She was as much a part of the family as any human relative. How could we explain that she was no more? I took them to their martial arts class knowing that when we returned their father would be home and we would have to tell them. We agreed to one little white lie: We would tell them that she had died at the veterinarian's office but not that we had had her put to sleep. Death is understandable, euthanasia a little less so when you are 11 and 7. We pulled into the driveway and, upon seeing their father's car in the driveway, my older boy, Jared, called out, "Daddy's home!" Then he said, "Adele's home!" I couldn't speak. I suspect he knew something was up because he repeated, "Adele's home!" Still I said nothing. As we walked up to the front door, my younger son repeated the story of something Adele had done that morning and told me, "She better not do that again!" No, she won't, I thought, and hoped that he wouldn't feel bad later for having said those words.
There was stunned silence when my husband first told them. Jared stood stoically until I took him in my arms. Even then he cried silently. Jack was confused at first, asking if she was going to be okay, then finally realizing that he was never going to see his cat again. That's when the tears started. I told him it was okay, to which he wisely responded that it wasn't. His grief broke my heart even further. As I watched him lying on the couch crying, I couldn't help but wonder how he would handle it when the loss was even greater. Intellectually, he knows death exists. Emotionally, the experience of losing someone he loves is like an unexpected round kick to the heart. How will he handle the deaths that lie before him? How will any of us?
The amazing thing is we will. Our world will be a little quieter, a little sadder perhaps. But we will get through it. We will find reasons to smile and to laugh and to wonder again.
We spent some time last night going through boxes of old photographs, hunting for pictures of Adele. It turned into a wonderful trip back in time to when our life as a family was just beginning. We found several pictures of Adele, in many of which she is lying next to Maslow, who died 7 years ago. And I smiled, thinking that they were back together again, napping peacefully in a spot of sunshine.
Which is strange because just yesterday I was awakened before dawn by the sound of raucous meowing. Just yesterday I stroked soft fur covering a little bony body while I spoke gentle words of comfort. Yesterday, I helped my husband guide an apparently disgruntled creature with sharp claws into a cat carrier. And even today, I find cat hair on blankets and floors, and there's still that little dirty spot on the rounded corner of the bathroom wall that she liked to rub against. A food bowl sits empty on the laundry room floor waiting to be filled.
But I don't have a cat.
I can't say it was a shock when my husband called from the vet's office yesterday afternoon to say that Adele's kidneys were failing along with a host of other problems and the vet suggested we have her put to sleep. I had known it was coming. We both had. Or perhaps I should say all three of us had. Adele hadn't been herself lately, jumping up on tables she had never thought to jump on before, following us into rooms but then sitting with her back turned to us like she was in some self-imposed time-out, curling up on the pillow next to the head of my sleeping child instead of staying in her usual spot at the foot of the bed. My husband joked that she was crossing off items on her bucket list. Maybe she was.
There are truths in life that we accept intellectually, but when we are actually confronted by those truths we find ourselves emotionally ill-equipped to deal with them. My husband asked me what I thought we should do. Neither one of us wanted to be the one to make the decision. So we talked around it for a few minutes, silently praying that the other one would be brave enough to say what we both knew needed to be said. In the end, I don't think either one of us said it. It was just understood. At the time, I thought it was the right thing to do. Now I have moments when I'm not so sure. I didn't want her to suffer, but I wonder if she wouldn't have preferred to be at home. I know that is what I would want for myself. To be surrounded by my own things and my own people. To be where all that really matters lives. I am comforted by the thought that my husband, the one who brought her into our home all those years ago, was with her at the end.
As painful as all that was, the hardest part was having to tell our children. They had known Adele all their lives. She was as much a part of the family as any human relative. How could we explain that she was no more? I took them to their martial arts class knowing that when we returned their father would be home and we would have to tell them. We agreed to one little white lie: We would tell them that she had died at the veterinarian's office but not that we had had her put to sleep. Death is understandable, euthanasia a little less so when you are 11 and 7. We pulled into the driveway and, upon seeing their father's car in the driveway, my older boy, Jared, called out, "Daddy's home!" Then he said, "Adele's home!" I couldn't speak. I suspect he knew something was up because he repeated, "Adele's home!" Still I said nothing. As we walked up to the front door, my younger son repeated the story of something Adele had done that morning and told me, "She better not do that again!" No, she won't, I thought, and hoped that he wouldn't feel bad later for having said those words.
There was stunned silence when my husband first told them. Jared stood stoically until I took him in my arms. Even then he cried silently. Jack was confused at first, asking if she was going to be okay, then finally realizing that he was never going to see his cat again. That's when the tears started. I told him it was okay, to which he wisely responded that it wasn't. His grief broke my heart even further. As I watched him lying on the couch crying, I couldn't help but wonder how he would handle it when the loss was even greater. Intellectually, he knows death exists. Emotionally, the experience of losing someone he loves is like an unexpected round kick to the heart. How will he handle the deaths that lie before him? How will any of us?
The amazing thing is we will. Our world will be a little quieter, a little sadder perhaps. But we will get through it. We will find reasons to smile and to laugh and to wonder again.
We spent some time last night going through boxes of old photographs, hunting for pictures of Adele. It turned into a wonderful trip back in time to when our life as a family was just beginning. We found several pictures of Adele, in many of which she is lying next to Maslow, who died 7 years ago. And I smiled, thinking that they were back together again, napping peacefully in a spot of sunshine.
Tuesday, April 15, 2014
Why I'll Think Twice Before Saying "It's Easy" to a Child
It's easy.
Or,
See, wasn't that easy?
How many times have I uttered those words? Probably more than I realize because honestly, I never gave much thought to what I was actually saying. Most likely I intended the words to be encouraging. Now, I'm not so sure that they are.
Last week, my younger son Jack was testing for his new belt rank in martial arts. For the test, the kids had to do a stick pattern called "windmill." It was similar to another pattern they had previously learned, but just different enough to be confusing to his young mind. It was beyond confusing to my not-so-young mind. I watched intently in class so that I might help Jack practice at home, but I just couldn't get it. Neither could he.
We had two days to practice before the test. But how do you practice something you don't know how to do? We had an idea of what it was supposed to look like but lacked all the intricate details. I instructed my boys to practice the best they could anyway. Needless to say, Jack wasn't thrilled and did his best to whine his way out of it. At his brother Jared's urging, however, he stuck with it. He kept getting stuck at one particular point. One of his sticks must have been in the wrong position because every time he did the second move he ended up hitting himself. We were all pretty certain that wasn't supposed to happen. Finally, Jack dashed downstairs to tell me he and his brother had figured it out and commanded me to come back upstairs and watch him. Sure enough, he was no longer his own worst enemy. We were making progress!
The day of the test came much too quickly. The first part of class was spent reviewing, and Jack's instructor worked with him on his windmill. Jack was still having trouble, but slowly began to get the hang of it. That's when his instructor said to him, "It's easy," words that I have said myself numerous times, but this time, hearing them spoken by someone else, and directed to my child, they stopped me cold.
It's easy.
Only, it wasn't.
As Jack's mother, I had seen him try and try again and just not be able to get the hang of it. It was decidedly NOT easy. I couldn't help but think, what message do we send a child who has struggled to grasp a skill or concept when we say that it is easy? If it's easy, then the kid must be pretty stupid to not have gotten it sooner, right? I know that that is not what Jack's instructor meant, and I don't even think Jack took it that way. I know I have certainly never meant it that way. But that was the unspoken message I sensed lurking beneath those innocuous words.
Sure, it is easy when you've done it a million times. Just like fractions and long division and inferring and writing complete sentences are easy for me. (Yes, I realize I do not always write in complete sentences!) Perhaps the problem is that we have so much experience that we have forgotten what it is like to know nothing and to be learning something for the first time. It seems to me, though, that when we say something that a child has struggled with is easy, we diminish their hard work and perseverance. They then become words of discouragement rather than the words of encouragement we intend them to be.
The next time I witness one of those miraculous moments when a child begins to understand what once was confusing, I won't diminish the accomplishment by saying, "See, wasn't that easy?" which I know very well it wasn't. Instead I will say something like, "See, all your hard work paid off," and thereby acknowledge that I know what that child has done wasn't easy, but I also know that they are capable of learning difficult and challenging things.
Or,
See, wasn't that easy?
How many times have I uttered those words? Probably more than I realize because honestly, I never gave much thought to what I was actually saying. Most likely I intended the words to be encouraging. Now, I'm not so sure that they are.
Last week, my younger son Jack was testing for his new belt rank in martial arts. For the test, the kids had to do a stick pattern called "windmill." It was similar to another pattern they had previously learned, but just different enough to be confusing to his young mind. It was beyond confusing to my not-so-young mind. I watched intently in class so that I might help Jack practice at home, but I just couldn't get it. Neither could he.
We had two days to practice before the test. But how do you practice something you don't know how to do? We had an idea of what it was supposed to look like but lacked all the intricate details. I instructed my boys to practice the best they could anyway. Needless to say, Jack wasn't thrilled and did his best to whine his way out of it. At his brother Jared's urging, however, he stuck with it. He kept getting stuck at one particular point. One of his sticks must have been in the wrong position because every time he did the second move he ended up hitting himself. We were all pretty certain that wasn't supposed to happen. Finally, Jack dashed downstairs to tell me he and his brother had figured it out and commanded me to come back upstairs and watch him. Sure enough, he was no longer his own worst enemy. We were making progress!
The day of the test came much too quickly. The first part of class was spent reviewing, and Jack's instructor worked with him on his windmill. Jack was still having trouble, but slowly began to get the hang of it. That's when his instructor said to him, "It's easy," words that I have said myself numerous times, but this time, hearing them spoken by someone else, and directed to my child, they stopped me cold.
It's easy.
Only, it wasn't.
As Jack's mother, I had seen him try and try again and just not be able to get the hang of it. It was decidedly NOT easy. I couldn't help but think, what message do we send a child who has struggled to grasp a skill or concept when we say that it is easy? If it's easy, then the kid must be pretty stupid to not have gotten it sooner, right? I know that that is not what Jack's instructor meant, and I don't even think Jack took it that way. I know I have certainly never meant it that way. But that was the unspoken message I sensed lurking beneath those innocuous words.
Sure, it is easy when you've done it a million times. Just like fractions and long division and inferring and writing complete sentences are easy for me. (Yes, I realize I do not always write in complete sentences!) Perhaps the problem is that we have so much experience that we have forgotten what it is like to know nothing and to be learning something for the first time. It seems to me, though, that when we say something that a child has struggled with is easy, we diminish their hard work and perseverance. They then become words of discouragement rather than the words of encouragement we intend them to be.
The next time I witness one of those miraculous moments when a child begins to understand what once was confusing, I won't diminish the accomplishment by saying, "See, wasn't that easy?" which I know very well it wasn't. Instead I will say something like, "See, all your hard work paid off," and thereby acknowledge that I know what that child has done wasn't easy, but I also know that they are capable of learning difficult and challenging things.
Thursday, March 20, 2014
The Day My Class Fell in Love with Close Reading (Or at Least Had Fun with It!)
With the current emphasis on close reading, I have been looking for opportunities to have my third graders reread texts to answer questions using text evidence. Ever since reading Falling in Love with Close Reading by Christopher Lehman and Kate Roberts, I have been trying to do more than just have students point to a place in the book where they found the answers to questions I ask. I was really struck by the idea that students should look at texts through particular "lenses," examine the details they find for patterns, and use those patterns to create understanding. On several occasions, I have had students work together to find evidence that would help them to answer questions that they themselves had formulated about characters, plot, and author's craft. Sometimes we were successful, sometimes not so much.
A couple of weeks ago, we read The Garden of Abdul Gasazi, written by Chris Van Allsburg. It is one of the few stories in our basal that I truly like and feel lends itself to rich discussion. One of the things I love about this book is that it requires students to pay close attention to the details to decide whether Gasazi, a retired magician, actually turned Fritz the dog into a duck or if it was all just a trick. It seemed like the perfect opportunity to put our close reading skills to work.
My students already had read the story and had pretty much decided what they thought had happened. I began by asking them to stand on one side of the room if they thought Gasazi had actually turned Fritz into a duck or stand on the opposite side if they thought it was just a joke Gasazi had played on Alan. My class this year surprised me. In previous years, most students believed that Fritz was really turned into a duck. The majority of this class, however, believed that it had been a trick. (My class is pretty respectful of authority, so I suspect when Miss Hester told Alan it had been a trick, they simply accepted it as fact.)
I told my students that they needed to prove that they were right by finding text evidence that supported their point of view. What could be more motivating than proving you're right? Students partnered up and immediately began rereading the story and writing down details.
Not long after they got started digging for evidence, two of my girls rushed up to me and excitedly inquired if they could switch to the other side of the room. They explained that they had found evidence that convinced them that Fritz had indeed been transformed into a duck. I quickly assured them that they could change their position. They happily sat down and continued their work, while I celebrated in my head that their closer examination of the text had led to new understanding. All around the room, students were working diligently searching for proof that they were right. I listened in as partners discussed what they had found, what it meant, and if it supported their position or not. Not once did I have to redirect a student who had gotten off-task.
Once students had had enough time to gather evidence, I called everyone together and had them share out their findings, which I recorded on a chart.
After looking at the evidence, we evaluated the quality of each argument. Even those who did not agree that Fritz was ever really a duck could see that there was plenty of evidence to suggest otherwise. In the end, the class decided the author had not made it clear on purpose. When I asked my students why they thought that was, one student offered that he thought the author wanted us to go back and reread the story to figure it out. And although everyone still did not agree whether it had been a trick or not, there was consensus that it was an entertaining, well-written story, and one worth looking at more closely.
Perhaps even more importantly, what my class I and learned together was that with the right story and the right motivation, close reading not only serves a purpose but can actually be fun!
A couple of weeks ago, we read The Garden of Abdul Gasazi, written by Chris Van Allsburg. It is one of the few stories in our basal that I truly like and feel lends itself to rich discussion. One of the things I love about this book is that it requires students to pay close attention to the details to decide whether Gasazi, a retired magician, actually turned Fritz the dog into a duck or if it was all just a trick. It seemed like the perfect opportunity to put our close reading skills to work.
My students already had read the story and had pretty much decided what they thought had happened. I began by asking them to stand on one side of the room if they thought Gasazi had actually turned Fritz into a duck or stand on the opposite side if they thought it was just a joke Gasazi had played on Alan. My class this year surprised me. In previous years, most students believed that Fritz was really turned into a duck. The majority of this class, however, believed that it had been a trick. (My class is pretty respectful of authority, so I suspect when Miss Hester told Alan it had been a trick, they simply accepted it as fact.)
I told my students that they needed to prove that they were right by finding text evidence that supported their point of view. What could be more motivating than proving you're right? Students partnered up and immediately began rereading the story and writing down details.
Once students had had enough time to gather evidence, I called everyone together and had them share out their findings, which I recorded on a chart.
Perhaps even more importantly, what my class I and learned together was that with the right story and the right motivation, close reading not only serves a purpose but can actually be fun!
Sunday, March 16, 2014
Red Paseo
A funny thing happened yesterday. I was talking to my mom on the phone, as I try to do every weekend. (No, that's not the funny part.) Halfway through our conversation, I heard my dad in the background telling my mom something, but I couldn't make out the words. When she relayed to me that he said I should blog about buying my first car, I was stunned. I couldn't possibly have heard her correctly. First of all, I didn't know my 86 year-old dad knew I had a blog. Hell, I didn't know he even knew what a blog was! But stranger still was the fact that last summer I had written about that very topic, although I had never shared it. What on earth had made him think of that? And why now?
This last month has been a difficult one for me, one in which giving up has appeared to be the only viable option. Unknowingly, with his out-of-the-blue suggestion that sent me back to this piece of writing, my dad gave me just the encouragement I needed to keep on going. So, Dad, this one's for you.
I was 25 when I bought my first new car. It was kind of a strange time in my life. I had graduated from college but still didn't know what I wanted to do with my life. (To be honest, I still am not entirely sure about that one.) I had fallen hopelessly in love right before graduation, which had probably convoluted the whole what-am-I-going-to-do-with-my-life scenario. But alas, the relationship had fallen apart, I was working for a financial consulting firm, and I was living alone in a tiny, run-down studio apartment in an iffy neighborhood hundreds of miles away from family.
What does this have to do with my car? Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything. I was at that proverbial crossroads and seeking to gain control of a life I was beginning to suspect I had little control over. What better way to convince yourself that you are master of your universe than to spend several thousand dollars you don't have?
The car I settled on was a 1992 Toyota Paseo. Medium red pearl was the color. (Funny the things you remember.) She was a beauty, and the closest I was going to get to a sports car on my budget. I absolutely loved that car and still get misty whenever I see one to this day. There was just one little problem with my beloved car. It had a manual transmission. And I had never driven a stick-shift in my life.
Now, I could have bought one with an automatic transmission, but that didn't fit my "vision." If I was going to drive a sporty car, then by God, it was going to be a stick! The salesman actually gave me a quick lesson, I signed the paperwork, handed over what little money I had, and the deal was done. By some miracle I was able to drive it back to my parents' house. When I jerked my shiny new car to a stop in their driveway, they must have thought I was the biggest idiot ever to buy a car I couldn't drive. I give them props for not saying anything to that fact. At least not to me anyway.
I spent the next few hours practicing driving around the neighborhood. It wasn't pretty. For some reason, I just could not get the hang of it. Seeing as how I am not the most coordinated person in the world, this should not have come as a surprise. But to me it did. In school, learning new things hadn't been hard for me. They weren't always easy (especially math), but I was able to get through--no, be successful--without too much strain. Now I was in a situation where I was on the hook for thousands of dollars for the next five years, and if I couldn't get the hang of this "ease up on the gas, put in the clutch, shift, ease up on on the clutch, and smoothly accelerate" dance, I was screwed.
I'd like to say that I mastered it that weekend, but I can't. It seemed hopeless. To make matters worse, I had to be at work Monday, and work was in Santa Barbara, a 5-hour drive away. So, there was only one thing to do. My dad had to drive me. So much for independence and mastering my universe.
For the next week, a friend drove me to and from work, while my boyfriend (new guy, not the one I fell hopelessly in love with) gave me driving lessons at night. Slowly, I got the hang of it until I finally acquired enough ability to get from point A to point B. It still felt awkward, though, and took tremendous amounts of concentration and effort. In short, driving my new lovely car wasn't so lovely.
I am not sure how long this went on. I do remember one humiliating occasion of being unable to get my car in the right gear in the parking lot at work while a coworker waited impatiently behind me. But mostly I remember the day I was driving home from work, and coming off the freeway, it all seemed to click into place. I didn't think to check the rear view mirror, but if I had, I'm pretty sure I would have seen a light bulb over my head. What hadn't made sense before, made sense. What hadn't worked, worked. It was like my mind and my body had finally decided to work together and stop fighting each other. Thinking about it even now, I am pretty sure I can hear angels singing. It was the most sublime a-ha moment of my life.
There are a few lessons I am sure can be learned from this experience. Everyone has things they are good at and learning comes easily, and everyone has things that are difficult for them. When learning something new, you sometimes are going to have to persevere through the struggle before you get it. Everyone learns at their own pace. These are important lessons, ones I need to keep in mind as I help my students learn and as I watch my own children grow through the experiences of their lives. These are important lessons. My take-away, however, is a little different and a little more personal.
This last month has been a difficult one for me, one in which giving up has appeared to be the only viable option. Unknowingly, with his out-of-the-blue suggestion that sent me back to this piece of writing, my dad gave me just the encouragement I needed to keep on going. So, Dad, this one's for you.
*****************
I was 25 when I bought my first new car. It was kind of a strange time in my life. I had graduated from college but still didn't know what I wanted to do with my life. (To be honest, I still am not entirely sure about that one.) I had fallen hopelessly in love right before graduation, which had probably convoluted the whole what-am-I-going-to-do-with-my-life scenario. But alas, the relationship had fallen apart, I was working for a financial consulting firm, and I was living alone in a tiny, run-down studio apartment in an iffy neighborhood hundreds of miles away from family.
What does this have to do with my car? Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything. I was at that proverbial crossroads and seeking to gain control of a life I was beginning to suspect I had little control over. What better way to convince yourself that you are master of your universe than to spend several thousand dollars you don't have?
The car I settled on was a 1992 Toyota Paseo. Medium red pearl was the color. (Funny the things you remember.) She was a beauty, and the closest I was going to get to a sports car on my budget. I absolutely loved that car and still get misty whenever I see one to this day. There was just one little problem with my beloved car. It had a manual transmission. And I had never driven a stick-shift in my life.
Now, I could have bought one with an automatic transmission, but that didn't fit my "vision." If I was going to drive a sporty car, then by God, it was going to be a stick! The salesman actually gave me a quick lesson, I signed the paperwork, handed over what little money I had, and the deal was done. By some miracle I was able to drive it back to my parents' house. When I jerked my shiny new car to a stop in their driveway, they must have thought I was the biggest idiot ever to buy a car I couldn't drive. I give them props for not saying anything to that fact. At least not to me anyway.
I spent the next few hours practicing driving around the neighborhood. It wasn't pretty. For some reason, I just could not get the hang of it. Seeing as how I am not the most coordinated person in the world, this should not have come as a surprise. But to me it did. In school, learning new things hadn't been hard for me. They weren't always easy (especially math), but I was able to get through--no, be successful--without too much strain. Now I was in a situation where I was on the hook for thousands of dollars for the next five years, and if I couldn't get the hang of this "ease up on the gas, put in the clutch, shift, ease up on on the clutch, and smoothly accelerate" dance, I was screwed.
I'd like to say that I mastered it that weekend, but I can't. It seemed hopeless. To make matters worse, I had to be at work Monday, and work was in Santa Barbara, a 5-hour drive away. So, there was only one thing to do. My dad had to drive me. So much for independence and mastering my universe.
For the next week, a friend drove me to and from work, while my boyfriend (new guy, not the one I fell hopelessly in love with) gave me driving lessons at night. Slowly, I got the hang of it until I finally acquired enough ability to get from point A to point B. It still felt awkward, though, and took tremendous amounts of concentration and effort. In short, driving my new lovely car wasn't so lovely.
I am not sure how long this went on. I do remember one humiliating occasion of being unable to get my car in the right gear in the parking lot at work while a coworker waited impatiently behind me. But mostly I remember the day I was driving home from work, and coming off the freeway, it all seemed to click into place. I didn't think to check the rear view mirror, but if I had, I'm pretty sure I would have seen a light bulb over my head. What hadn't made sense before, made sense. What hadn't worked, worked. It was like my mind and my body had finally decided to work together and stop fighting each other. Thinking about it even now, I am pretty sure I can hear angels singing. It was the most sublime a-ha moment of my life.
There are a few lessons I am sure can be learned from this experience. Everyone has things they are good at and learning comes easily, and everyone has things that are difficult for them. When learning something new, you sometimes are going to have to persevere through the struggle before you get it. Everyone learns at their own pace. These are important lessons, ones I need to keep in mind as I help my students learn and as I watch my own children grow through the experiences of their lives. These are important lessons. My take-away, however, is a little different and a little more personal.
When I think about this particular event in my life, I marvel at the shear gumption I displayed. I knew what I wanted and I wasn't about to let anything, not even lack of skill, stand in my way. I fought hard to make it happen. And I triumphed. That moment sticks in my head when so many other memories have faded from view. Why? Not just because it was a moment of success, but because it was a moment of success following failure. I refused to be beaten and took control. Some would say it was a stupid move to buy that car. I say it was bold. And a move that led to one of my proudest moments.
Thank you, Dad, for always being there for me even when it meant great sacrifice on your part, for believing in me, and for giving me the courage to believe in myself.
Thank you, Dad, for always being there for me even when it meant great sacrifice on your part, for believing in me, and for giving me the courage to believe in myself.
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