Officially, I'm a reading teacher. I teach three sections of seventh grade reading to a total of 68 kids. Seems like a big responsibility--and, in many ways, it's daunting beyond belief--but in reality it occupies only a small fraction of my work day. The rest of the day occurs on the fly, off the cuff, certainly not in my job description. I don't think I'd have it any other way. Responsibilities could include, hypothetically, cleaning up the shattered mirror that a kid broke into dozens of dangerous shards while primping during Act 4 of Romeo and Juliet. And then, once we're out of glassy danger, dishing out a consequence for said offense. It could include explaining to a kid for twenty minutes that there are other fish in the sea (like anyone heartbroken believes that), and that writing his crush's name all over his homework/arm/backpack/desk isn't going to help anything, least of all his grade. It could even include going to the Party Store on Atlantic Avenue at 6pm on a Monday to spend 500 thankfully-reimburseabal-dollars on helium tanks, iridescent table cloths, Styrofoam plates and ribbon (ribbon, ribbon, ribbon).
The hats you wear as teacher are diverse: confidant, disciplinarian, life coach and, the latest, party planner. Somehow, I ended up on the decorations committee for the network-wide Writing Oscars, which is exactly what it sounds like. Kids across the network were nominated for excellent writing in four categories: persuasive writing, creative response, literary response and personal narrative. Brooklyn-based writers were the judges and chose a lucky winner to receive the coveted Oscar in each category.
I hate decorating things as much as I love writing things, so it follows that I had mixed emotions about my position on the decorations committee for the Writing Oscars. There wasn't exactly a choice in the matter, though, and there I was at the Party Store--a place I hadn't visited since picking out lavender Bat Mitzvah decorations (bad choice) in the seventh grade. Like too many vodka-tonics on a Friday night, what goes around comes around. We spruced up the auditorium of the Uncommon High School in Crown Heights. There was red carpet scotch-taped to the floor, a life-size Oscar cut-out for photo ops, Martinelli's Apple Cider (you may remember it from Passovers past) and digital projection coming atcha from all angles. There was even a soundtrack.
Decorations committee is a force to be reckoned with. Is a force with which to reckon? I've long espoused the benefits of teaching kids (people, really) to write. And to write well. A functional use of the English language is one of the most important tools to have as you enter high school, college and the real world (whatever that means). A true talent for words is rarer, less pressing, but even better. It's shocking how little emphasis is placed on grammar, sentence fluency and punctuation in the majority of schools today. Teaching kids to write is hard, particularly in urban areas where subject/verb agreement comes a bit less naturally, but it's undeniably important. As a somewhat judgmental adult, I find myself analyzing other adults' writing and wondering how it's possible that so many people never learned the basics (with a statement like that, you better believe I'm gonna edit the hell out of this post). As editor-in-chief of my high school then college newspaper, I constantly wondered (in red pen) if people didn't know, didn't care or were never taught. I take people more seriously if they know how to write--I'm probably a snob--and I tell my students as much. Writing is up there with riding a bike and learning to swim. Important. I'm happy to work at a school that honors writing in the way that other schools may only honor sportier endeavors. Serious categories like response to literature and persuasive writing tell students that this stuff matters; those endless essays and short responses are getting you somewhere. Today, it might be the Writing Oscars; in ten years, the skills honed could give you the advantage you need to score a job over hundreds of other qualified applicants.
At the ceremony, kids were dressed to the nines anxiously awaiting their category and the chance to possibly take home a Writing Oscar. The acceptance speeches were adorable. Writing teachers, mothers and God were all thanked profusely (you know you're not in Portland, Oregon anymore when kids start talking God and everyone just nods). Frequently, speeches started dramatically with: "I never expected to be up here." Wait, you, as a ten-year-old kid in Brooklyn, never expected to win a plastic Writing Oscar for your personal narrative about your hamster's funeral? Well, I guess that sorta makes sense...
A 6th grader, who probably falls somewhere on the autism spectrum, took home the award for creative response, my personal favorite category. Like I said, it's important to know how to write--how to use conventions, how to make words make sense on paper, convey meaning. What's less important, but to me pretty exciting, is being able to write creatively. Very few people enjoy or even attempt to do this. Fewer still are any good at it. This kid walked nervously up to the stage in a mini-suit and red tie and looked out over the audience. Breath was bated as he fumbled. After kissing his Oscar (really), he rambled nervously for a while, thanking the usual crew. Then he said something that made me take pause.
"I sometimes write instead of doing my homework. Sometimes I get so lost when I'm writing that I forget to go to bed. Sometimes I even lose my homework because I'm writing so much. I get confused. And my parents get mad at me."
Eventually he got slow-clapped off stage because there was no cue music or lady in a gown to assist him off. The speech was endearing and awkward and funny all at the same time. But I know this kid. Pretty well, it seems. He loves writing so much that it overcomes him. That other responsibilities pale in comparison to the task that is his prose. He may not know what words deserve capitalization or that you should never begin a sentence with "you was...", but I got the feeling this kid can write. Maybe kid's got gift. The teacher in me suspects he's likely failing all his classes because of that misplaced homework, but the writer in me has a suspicion--whether it's correct or not, who knows--that this guy in the suit is the real deal. You just don't talk about writing like life or death unless you really, really care.
The hats you wear as teacher are diverse: confidant, disciplinarian, life coach and, the latest, party planner. Somehow, I ended up on the decorations committee for the network-wide Writing Oscars, which is exactly what it sounds like. Kids across the network were nominated for excellent writing in four categories: persuasive writing, creative response, literary response and personal narrative. Brooklyn-based writers were the judges and chose a lucky winner to receive the coveted Oscar in each category.
I hate decorating things as much as I love writing things, so it follows that I had mixed emotions about my position on the decorations committee for the Writing Oscars. There wasn't exactly a choice in the matter, though, and there I was at the Party Store--a place I hadn't visited since picking out lavender Bat Mitzvah decorations (bad choice) in the seventh grade. Like too many vodka-tonics on a Friday night, what goes around comes around. We spruced up the auditorium of the Uncommon High School in Crown Heights. There was red carpet scotch-taped to the floor, a life-size Oscar cut-out for photo ops, Martinelli's Apple Cider (you may remember it from Passovers past) and digital projection coming atcha from all angles. There was even a soundtrack.
Decorations committee is a force to be reckoned with. Is a force with which to reckon? I've long espoused the benefits of teaching kids (people, really) to write. And to write well. A functional use of the English language is one of the most important tools to have as you enter high school, college and the real world (whatever that means). A true talent for words is rarer, less pressing, but even better. It's shocking how little emphasis is placed on grammar, sentence fluency and punctuation in the majority of schools today. Teaching kids to write is hard, particularly in urban areas where subject/verb agreement comes a bit less naturally, but it's undeniably important. As a somewhat judgmental adult, I find myself analyzing other adults' writing and wondering how it's possible that so many people never learned the basics (with a statement like that, you better believe I'm gonna edit the hell out of this post). As editor-in-chief of my high school then college newspaper, I constantly wondered (in red pen) if people didn't know, didn't care or were never taught. I take people more seriously if they know how to write--I'm probably a snob--and I tell my students as much. Writing is up there with riding a bike and learning to swim. Important. I'm happy to work at a school that honors writing in the way that other schools may only honor sportier endeavors. Serious categories like response to literature and persuasive writing tell students that this stuff matters; those endless essays and short responses are getting you somewhere. Today, it might be the Writing Oscars; in ten years, the skills honed could give you the advantage you need to score a job over hundreds of other qualified applicants.
At the ceremony, kids were dressed to the nines anxiously awaiting their category and the chance to possibly take home a Writing Oscar. The acceptance speeches were adorable. Writing teachers, mothers and God were all thanked profusely (you know you're not in Portland, Oregon anymore when kids start talking God and everyone just nods). Frequently, speeches started dramatically with: "I never expected to be up here." Wait, you, as a ten-year-old kid in Brooklyn, never expected to win a plastic Writing Oscar for your personal narrative about your hamster's funeral? Well, I guess that sorta makes sense...
A 6th grader, who probably falls somewhere on the autism spectrum, took home the award for creative response, my personal favorite category. Like I said, it's important to know how to write--how to use conventions, how to make words make sense on paper, convey meaning. What's less important, but to me pretty exciting, is being able to write creatively. Very few people enjoy or even attempt to do this. Fewer still are any good at it. This kid walked nervously up to the stage in a mini-suit and red tie and looked out over the audience. Breath was bated as he fumbled. After kissing his Oscar (really), he rambled nervously for a while, thanking the usual crew. Then he said something that made me take pause.
"I sometimes write instead of doing my homework. Sometimes I get so lost when I'm writing that I forget to go to bed. Sometimes I even lose my homework because I'm writing so much. I get confused. And my parents get mad at me."
Eventually he got slow-clapped off stage because there was no cue music or lady in a gown to assist him off. The speech was endearing and awkward and funny all at the same time. But I know this kid. Pretty well, it seems. He loves writing so much that it overcomes him. That other responsibilities pale in comparison to the task that is his prose. He may not know what words deserve capitalization or that you should never begin a sentence with "you was...", but I got the feeling this kid can write. Maybe kid's got gift. The teacher in me suspects he's likely failing all his classes because of that misplaced homework, but the writer in me has a suspicion--whether it's correct or not, who knows--that this guy in the suit is the real deal. You just don't talk about writing like life or death unless you really, really care.
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