I was recently listening to a teacher relate a story about something that had happened in her classroom. She was in the practice, at the end of writing workshop, of allowing her kids time to step up and share a bit of what they had been working to create in their writing journals. At the end of these share sessions she would then open up her own writing notebook and share something she had been writing. A wonderful practice, it was meant to model good writing as well as demonstrate that she writes in a variety of genres and for a variety of purposes. It was also a great opportunity to show her kids how she, too, struggles through many parts of her own writing process.
So one day as the kids finished up sharing their pieces she reached for her journal and someone called out “Alright, now it’s time for the BEST piece!” Stunned, she slumped back into her chair realizing she had done something very wrong. She had sent a negative message to her young writers without ever knowing it had happened. In addition to modeling herself as a writer she had also given the impression that when all of their pieces were out of the way she would show them what really good writing sounds like. Oops!
This can happen awfully easily. I see it occasionally in my own teaching; particularly when I feel the need to have the final say, to set the conversation straight, or to validate everyone’s comments with some sort of response. I find that when I do this too often I teach the kids to speak to me instead of to one another. It creates the sense that I am the one - the only one, really- who determines the importance and relevance of their thoughts, feelings, and questions.
Fortunately, many of us work hard to avoid these interactions and messages. When they present themselves we work to find ways to fix what we’ve done and to move in new directions that will avoid future occurrences. Often times the kids will unknowingly let you know how you’re doing. One of the best ways to find out is to listen to how the kids interact with one another. After hundreds of hours together they tend to sound a lot like you.
We have a neighbor who yells quite often at his kids and not so surprisingly we see his children yelling at one another. Their ears turn crimson red, they step up uncomfortably close, and spike an index finger into the other’s face as they raise a loud and angry voice. They sound exactly like their father. Seeing this makes you worry what your own kids might do or say. Certainly nothing like this!
Sometimes this mimicking is just the opposite, though. It reminds you that you’re doing something right. Something good. I had a really great conversation with one of my kids at school yesterday. One of those conversations that let you get a glimpse of something you’ve done right.
I decided at the beginning of writing workshop yesterday that I should really settle in and try to publish a piece to share alongside the kids. I knew that time was short and that I had a lot of graduate work to do at home so whatever this piece was going to be it would need to be relatively short. I decided on a poem.
I am not one to normally write a poem. Sure, I do my best each year to spend a few weeks really focusing on poetry and its many forms and uses of playful and powerful language. However, I find that once this poetry unit washes away I no longer feel like writing a poem of my own. Read them, sure. Write them, no.
So I sat down at a table next to Kayla, who was also struggling to decide what to write, and opened up my writer’s notebook to a page where, a few days earlier, I had taken some notes on many of the sensory observations to be had when watching fireworks. There’s a poem in here somewhere, I thought. I dropped my head onto my notebook and exhaled loudly. This got Kayla’s attention.
“What are you doing?” she asked, more entertained than concerned.
“Writing a poem,” I answered. I lifted my head to look at her. “Hey, you want to write one, too?”
I showed her how I had assembled and organized my notes on the fireworks. She decided to do the same thing for Captain D’s, the seafood restaurant. We worked alongside one another, doing serious work on poems that would no doubt change the course of humankind. After about ten minutes I had what I thought was a pretty good start but my poem seemed to be getting longer and longer without any end in sight. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out where this poem was headed, none-the-less why I really even chose to write it.
I picked up my notebook and walked over to Kirby.
“Hey Kirby, you think you could sit with me and help me with my poem a little bit?” I asked.
She looked up at me.
“Sure.”
I made my way over to the front of the room to have a seat on the carpet and wait for her. Kirby finished up what she was doing and came over looking a tad bit honored and a tad bit unsure.
“Okay,” I started. “Here’s what I’ve done. I started with these words and phrases that remind me of watching a really big fireworks display and I’ve tried to make them into a poem. The problem is that I’m really not sure how to end it. I’m not sure where it’s headed and I don’t want it to just stop awkwardly. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah,” she answered.
“Well, let me read to you what I have so far and you maybe you can help me think of a good way to end it,” I said.
I read her my poem. It was really fresh and really raw so there were parts where I wasn’t even sure how it was supposed to sound and other parts where I struggled to read my own careless handwriting. Once I had finished I looked up at her and asked, “So, what do you think? How could I end it?”
She sat and thought for a while looking really unsure.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I haven’t written any poems in a really long time. Maybe you could find a poetry book and read through it to get some ideas. You could see how other people have finished theirs.”
That was it! What do we do when we get stuck in our writing? We find a piece of writing that we really like and we think about what they have done that we could emulate. She was actually using my own advice to help me with my piece. She was the teacher and I was the learner. Moments like this seem really small and inconsequential to most anyone who doesn’t teach but to those of us who do it’s the stuff that could make an entire day.
“Do you know of any poetry books in particular that I might try?” I asked. I knew this was pushing it a little because Kirby is an avid fantasy reader, consuming every series she can get her hands on.
“No, not really,” she said. “But I did see someone in the room reading a poetry book a few days ago. Maybe you could ask them.”
“Oh, that was Hannah,” I said. “And I think her poetry book was humorous. My poem isn’t really funny so I’m not sure that her book would be all that helpful.”
We sat there and talked about poetry books for a while and then discussed the possibility of finishing with a flourish.
“The finale!” she exclaimed.
“Yeah, the finale,” I said. “That makes a lot of sense. It’s kind of like the natural way to end it.”
She hopped up and returned to her own work and I sat and finished up the draft of my poem. The poem turned out okay but the conversation around it was far better. I couldn’t wait to share this discussion with everyone else. I couldn’t wait to tell them how I had come to Kirby with a very specific question or concern about my piece and how she had suggested finding a book to help and then brainstormed some ideas with me.
After our workshop was over everyone took a turn sharing something they were working on. As always, I was blown away by their originality and their writing. Kayla’s poem about Captain D’s was really great – far better than the restaurant itself, I’m sure. And having learned nothing from that earlier anecdote from a fellow teacher, I shared my piece last. So they could hear the BEST writing.
Okay, definitely not the best. But thanks to Kayla writing alongside me and Kirby giving me some pointers I was able to finish a poem. Quite an accomplishment.
Fireworks
The crowd gathers in so tight
I can barely breathe
Our heads lifted
skyward
in anticipation
Suddenly the first crackles
fill the sky with shimmering
sparkling greens
and blues
and reds
and purples
and whites
Where do all the colors come from?
My chest pounds
with each explosion of light
each tremor of sound
Babies bury their faces
in their mothers’ chests
crying
crying
crying
Wanting it to stop
Seconds turn to minutes
slowly ticking past
and the sky goes still
Clouds of smoke
Sit above us
like an eerie dream
Calm
Suddenly thousands
of flashes spark from
the ground
and sticks of lightning
again fill the air
It’s too much to see
Too much to hear
I wish I could stretch it out
over a million nights
so it would
never
have
to
end
