High school English teachers often do not agree about whether teachers should choose books for students to read or whether students should choose their own texts to read. Generally, teachers who think students should choose their own reading material attach this approach to a desire toward maximum student engagement in reading. Those who think teachers should choose what books students read generally refer to the concept of the literary canon and the importance of students getting certain literary content, to understand literary movements and to tap into the cultural knowledge that great works of literature contain. I can see the draw of both of these approaches and ultimately want to figure out, who should choose the books students read for school, students or their teachers?
In "Who Should Decide What High School Kids Are Allowed to Read?" Rob Kunzig uses the example of an award-winning young adult book banned by a school board to pose the question about who should decide what books students read in school. Kunzig explains that the book in question, Emily Danforth's Cameron Post, shocked parents when it showed up on a summer reading list because of its profanity and sexual content in its story about a lesbian growing up in rural Montana. The author suggests that even though the board cited the book's language as the reason for not endorsing its use as an option on a reading list for incoming freshmen, the board was actually reacting to the content and how it challenged beliefs held by the adults in the community. The author illustrates that there was some dissent on the school board by quoting one board member: "'It would have been so helpful to me,' says board member Roni Posner--who, like Cameron Post, wrestled with her sexuality as a teenager. She says she understands why the book would rattle the more conservative members of the community: 'It's untraditional. But it's a very real, very honest book, and it's a very important book.'" According to Kunzig, this lead to controversy between the school board and the American Civil Liberties Union's Delaware chapter. This controversy has actually brought more attention to the book and more sales of it, explains Kunzig.
In "The Percy Jackson Problem," Rebecca Mead quotes Neal Gaiman's premise that there isn't "such a thing as a bad book for children," and that "Fiction is a 'gateway drug' to reading" but then questions this idea. She focuses her reflection on the Percy Jackson series, a retelling essentially of classic stories from mythology. She explains that whereas many students would more likely choose Riordan's series over a more traditional take on mythology, this does not mean that books such as Riordan's will lead young readers to a more literary reading life. She cautions, "But the metaphor of the gateway should prompt caution, too, since one can go through a gate in two directions." She worries that young readers will be enticed toward wanting more reading of the same ilk, rather than directing readers toward the classics of literature.
In "Start a Reading Revolution: Flip Your Classroom with Blogs," AP Literature teacher Brian Sztabnik presents feedback from his students suggesting that they were not actually reading the books he assigned to them in class. He presents flipping the classroom as a solution for this problem. He describes the conventional understanding of the flipped classroom: "students watch online lectures at home so that they can engage in project-based learning during the school day." But Sztabnik explains that this model of flipping is not a perfect match for a reading classroom. But, he goes on, if flipping means that you bring into class the work that students typically do at home, then for an AP literature class, that means bringing reading into the classroom rather than having students complete it on their own at home. So he gave over many class days to reading in class and asked students to choose their texts. He asked students to blog each evening about the reading that they did in class that day. Sztabnik claims that this classroom flip created engaged, excited, empowered readers like he had never seen before.
Kunzig‘s piece places importance on students being able to choose books that will help them figure out their identities, something that might not be possible if teachers are telling them what to read. But Mead worries that students will not choose to challenge themselves with the classics if left to their own in choosing books to read. Sztabnik seems to balance both of these viewpoints. His AP Literature students choose what to read on their own, but within a certain selection of possible texts, the sort that the College Board recommends in their curriculum materials for AP Lit. According to Sztabnik, this approach (students choosing what they read, giving over ample class time to reading, and having students blog about their reading for each other) has lead to more engaged readers who are also interacting with the “classics” and preparing for the AP Lit exam.
I’m certain that there are some perspectives missing here--I need to search wider to be able to articulate more fully the conversation about who should choose the books for high school students to read. And ultimately, I lean toward a balanced approach. There is balance in the whole class reading the same book together at the same time, even having the teacher select that text for the class specifically. But I don’t think this should be the entirety of students’ reading experiences in school. They should make some choices about their reading material. And the teacher should help them navigate those choices so that they end up with books that challenge them as readers and human beings.
Works Cited
Kunzig, Rob. "Who Should Decide What High School Kids Are Allowed to Read?" The Atlantic. N.p., 5 Sept. 2014. Web. 12 Nov. 2014. <http://www.theatlantic.com/education/archive/2014/09/ who-should-decide-what-high-school-kids-read/379609/>.
Mead, Rebecca. "The Percy Jackson Problem." The New Yorker. N.p., 22 Oct. 2014. Web. 12 Nov. 2014. <http://www.newyorker.com/culture/cultural-comment/ percy-jackson-problem>.
Sztabnik, Brian. "Flipped Classroom: Start a Reading Revolution: Flip Your Classroom with Blogs." Edutopia. George Lucas Educational Foundation, 17 Oct. 2014. Web. 3 Nov. 2014. <http://www.edutopia.org/blog/ flip-ela-class-with-blogs-brian-sztabnik>.
Writer’s memo: This went fine. I do think my research is not wide enough yet and I have more work to do for the research paper. This slice of workshop teaching will be a part of my overall argument about workshop teaching, but I’m not sure if this will actually be a part of my persuasive argument research paper. Still trying to think that out.
Wednesday, November 12, 2014
Monday, October 20, 2014
The Bad Dot
I don’t want to tell you how embarrassed I was.
When they parked their car (a small, orange hatchback) about a half a block away and walked up behind us, I was mortified when my mom turned around and asked them what they were doing. Any high school age kid was by definition way cooler than I felt as an awkward 8th grader. Please mom, don’t embarrass me in front of these two unknown teenage boys who appeared on the sidewalk right behind us.
I don’t want to tell you about how they walked through us (my grandfather, my aunt, my mom and I on a walk around the block after Thanksgiving dinner, 1986), walked ahead of us a few paces, then turned around and came back.
I don’t want to tell you about how the force of his hand on my face knocked me to the ground.
I wouldn’t tell you if I was screaming, but I can’t remember if I was. But I think somebody was.
I don’t want to tell you about the glimpses I got of my mom on the ground behind me, kicks coming at her ribs, or my aunt pushed up against the fence, fists coming at her face.
I don’t want to tell you about my grandfather unsure of what to do and unable to stop it.
I don’t want to tell you about the drops of blood on my jean jacket and how my first thought was that I hoped they would wash out because how would I explain that to people at school?
I don’t want to tell you about how I kept ice on my cheek all evening to ward off any possible bruise, about how the police told me that the statement I wrote was so detailed and specific, about my aunt’s broken nose, my mom’s bruised ribs, about how when we took my aunt and grandparents to the airport the next day people looked sideways at us, drawing their own conclusions about my father’s bandaged hand (from a recent surgery) and my aunt’s horribly bruised face.
I don’t want to tell you about how because my face didn’t bruise and the blood washed out of my jacket I didn’t have to deal with any questions from the kids at school, but Chuckie Griffey stopped me in the hall, “I heard about what happened to you, and I’m really sorry.” I am still grateful for his kindness that day.
Then, I didn’t understand why these two boys weren’t with their families on Thanksgiving and instead made us unwilling participants in what the police told us was likely a gang initiation.
Now, I know that the gang they were trying to get into was the most stable family they had.
Being a victim isn’t a bad thing, but maybe I didn’t want to tell you about this because I have never considered myself a victim after this. Not then, not now.
The whole thing has always just made me sad. Sad for my relatives visiting from rural Ohio for who had to confront big city violence. Sad for the two boys whose lives gave them no other choices. Sad for what we heard about in the news, that a few weeks later these gang initiations started including golf clubs.
When they parked their car (a small, orange hatchback) about a half a block away and walked up behind us, I was mortified when my mom turned around and asked them what they were doing. Any high school age kid was by definition way cooler than I felt as an awkward 8th grader. Please mom, don’t embarrass me in front of these two unknown teenage boys who appeared on the sidewalk right behind us.
I don’t want to tell you about how they walked through us (my grandfather, my aunt, my mom and I on a walk around the block after Thanksgiving dinner, 1986), walked ahead of us a few paces, then turned around and came back.
I don’t want to tell you about how the force of his hand on my face knocked me to the ground.
I wouldn’t tell you if I was screaming, but I can’t remember if I was. But I think somebody was.
I don’t want to tell you about the glimpses I got of my mom on the ground behind me, kicks coming at her ribs, or my aunt pushed up against the fence, fists coming at her face.
I don’t want to tell you about my grandfather unsure of what to do and unable to stop it.
I don’t want to tell you about the drops of blood on my jean jacket and how my first thought was that I hoped they would wash out because how would I explain that to people at school?
I don’t want to tell you about how I kept ice on my cheek all evening to ward off any possible bruise, about how the police told me that the statement I wrote was so detailed and specific, about my aunt’s broken nose, my mom’s bruised ribs, about how when we took my aunt and grandparents to the airport the next day people looked sideways at us, drawing their own conclusions about my father’s bandaged hand (from a recent surgery) and my aunt’s horribly bruised face.
I don’t want to tell you about how because my face didn’t bruise and the blood washed out of my jacket I didn’t have to deal with any questions from the kids at school, but Chuckie Griffey stopped me in the hall, “I heard about what happened to you, and I’m really sorry.” I am still grateful for his kindness that day.
Then, I didn’t understand why these two boys weren’t with their families on Thanksgiving and instead made us unwilling participants in what the police told us was likely a gang initiation.
Now, I know that the gang they were trying to get into was the most stable family they had.
Being a victim isn’t a bad thing, but maybe I didn’t want to tell you about this because I have never considered myself a victim after this. Not then, not now.
The whole thing has always just made me sad. Sad for my relatives visiting from rural Ohio for who had to confront big city violence. Sad for the two boys whose lives gave them no other choices. Sad for what we heard about in the news, that a few weeks later these gang initiations started including golf clubs.
I didn't want to tell you all of this.
But now I'm glad that I did.
Monday, September 22, 2014
Doc Z's Personal Commentary: U2 Breeds New Fans
I would appreciate some feedback (in the comments) about how well this is working. Any of Pitts's craft moves I could add? Where could I include more specific detail? Does it all work together--does it reconnect at the end to where it started at the beginning? And my title is boring. Help.
Last week, every single itunes user, that’s all 885 million of them, got U2’s latest album, Songs of Innocence, for free. According to Apple, “this is the biggest album release in music history.”
In fact, this free gift to itunes customers is the only way to acquire the album until October 13.
The presumption that they would want this album mysteriously showing up on their iPhone annoyed some iTunes customers. To this, Bono responded, “The same people who used to write on toilet walls when we were kids are now in the blogosphere. The blogosphere is enough to put you off of democracy [laughs]. But no, let people have their say. Why not? They're the haters, we're the lovers, we're never going to agree” (Heisler).
And yes, the world seems to be divided into the haters and lovers of U2. Which is why I think this unprecedented album release is pure genius. Bono himself explains why:
See, U2 fans are die hards.
They drop huge amounts of money on U2 concert tickets.
I know because I’m one of them.
I started listening to U2 in middle school. I own every album. I’ve attended every concert tour since Joshua Tree. That makes six times I’ve seen U2 in concert--Denver, Denver, Seattle, Chicago, Denver, Denver. As a teenager, I legitimately mourned the fact that I had missed the “Sunday Bloody Sunday” performance at Red Rocks; I was only ten years old at the time, too young to know what I was missing. On bad days in high school, I carried the cassette of Unforgettable Fire around in my pocket--not even in my Walkman. I had no way to listen to it. Just knowing the music was on my person seemed to make everything okay.
That first U2 concert was epic for me (the link goes to video footage of the Los Angeles concert that happened 11 days after the show I saw in Denver in 1987). I was in ninth grade and U2 was larger than life in my world. I had been to a few other concerts but nothing this huge. The Steve Miller Band at Red Rocks (with my best friend’s nun aunt as our chaperone) was a great way to start my concert going experiences, but that was a far cry from the energy and intensity and huge rock band atmosphere of that Joshua Tree tour show. I bounced up and down for the entire show, screaming along because of course I knew every lyric.
To be truthful, U2’s glow has faded for me in my adulthood. I don’t listen to the music often. At the last few concerts, I’ve hoped to have tickets somewhere in the stadium where I can sit and still see the stage rather than having to stand for the whole show--my 14-year old self would be so disappointed.
But I will of course snag tickets the exact moment they are released for sale whenever U2 comes back through town on their next tour. I’ll have to be quick to get the tickets because I’ll be competing with all those new U2 fans cultivated by this unprecedented album release.
This time I’ll take my kid along to the concert, too.
And if Bono and The Edge and Larry and Adam walked into the room, the 14-year-old version of me would take over.
I’d be the one who just fainted on the floor.
Work Cited
Heisler, Yoni. “Bono talks 885 million iTunes accounts, new music format, and ‘haters.’ Tuaw: The Unofficial Apple Weblog. Online. 22 September 2014.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Last week, every single itunes user, that’s all 885 million of them, got U2’s latest album, Songs of Innocence, for free. According to Apple, “this is the biggest album release in music history.”
In fact, this free gift to itunes customers is the only way to acquire the album until October 13.
The presumption that they would want this album mysteriously showing up on their iPhone annoyed some iTunes customers. To this, Bono responded, “The same people who used to write on toilet walls when we were kids are now in the blogosphere. The blogosphere is enough to put you off of democracy [laughs]. But no, let people have their say. Why not? They're the haters, we're the lovers, we're never going to agree” (Heisler).
And yes, the world seems to be divided into the haters and lovers of U2. Which is why I think this unprecedented album release is pure genius. Bono himself explains why:
People really who would not ordinarily be exposed to our music have a chance to listen to it. Whether they hold that to their hearts, we don't know. Whether those songs will be important to them in a week's time, we don't know. But they have a chance, and that's gotta be exciting for a band that's been around as long as we have. (Heisler)Of course it’s exciting for U2 to imagine that people who would not ever consider purchasing the album are now listening to it. Some of those people will like it, even love it. And it’s those U2 lovers who make the band so successful.
See, U2 fans are die hards.
They drop huge amounts of money on U2 concert tickets.
I know because I’m one of them.
I started listening to U2 in middle school. I own every album. I’ve attended every concert tour since Joshua Tree. That makes six times I’ve seen U2 in concert--Denver, Denver, Seattle, Chicago, Denver, Denver. As a teenager, I legitimately mourned the fact that I had missed the “Sunday Bloody Sunday” performance at Red Rocks; I was only ten years old at the time, too young to know what I was missing. On bad days in high school, I carried the cassette of Unforgettable Fire around in my pocket--not even in my Walkman. I had no way to listen to it. Just knowing the music was on my person seemed to make everything okay.
To be truthful, U2’s glow has faded for me in my adulthood. I don’t listen to the music often. At the last few concerts, I’ve hoped to have tickets somewhere in the stadium where I can sit and still see the stage rather than having to stand for the whole show--my 14-year old self would be so disappointed.
But I will of course snag tickets the exact moment they are released for sale whenever U2 comes back through town on their next tour. I’ll have to be quick to get the tickets because I’ll be competing with all those new U2 fans cultivated by this unprecedented album release.
This time I’ll take my kid along to the concert, too.
And if Bono and The Edge and Larry and Adam walked into the room, the 14-year-old version of me would take over.
I’d be the one who just fainted on the floor.
Work Cited
Heisler, Yoni. “Bono talks 885 million iTunes accounts, new music format, and ‘haters.’ Tuaw: The Unofficial Apple Weblog. Online. 22 September 2014.
Thursday, September 18, 2014
Breakfast Preparation Time: Results
Tuesday, 9/16/14: 11 minutes for making breakfast and packing my lunch.
Wednesday, 9/17/14: 9 minutes for making breakfast and packing my lunch.
Thursday, 9/18/14: 8 minutes for making breakfast and packing my lunch.
Friday, 9/19/14: 7 minutes 50 seconds for making breakfast (ate in the cafeteria that day--cheesy polenta!)
I wrote about my morning oatmeal routine a while back on my writing blog. You should read that post here. And leave me some comments (there or here) if you have any thoughts.
Wednesday, 9/17/14: 9 minutes for making breakfast and packing my lunch.
Thursday, 9/18/14: 8 minutes for making breakfast and packing my lunch.
Friday, 9/19/14: 7 minutes 50 seconds for making breakfast (ate in the cafeteria that day--cheesy polenta!)
I wrote about my morning oatmeal routine a while back on my writing blog. You should read that post here. And leave me some comments (there or here) if you have any thoughts.
Ink
18
Heavily researched with Kuhrt.
Egyptian hieroglyphics.
Mine--the left eye of Ra, the moon,
crying a tear of faith, hope, and love.
His--mysterious Kuhrt language they say now.
Nobody knows what it means.
But I remember.
20
With Heather, horrified, in
a Denver studio.
Seeking balance.
Yin/Yang hand, to remind me.
22
Leaving college. Leaving childhood.
Leaving a version of me behind (but
taking my nickname with me).
With Jeni Rae (sunburst on her foot)
and Jay (navel piercing)
24
Daisies. With Paul.
Olympia.
First Christmas.
Our wedding flower.
28
Getting braver in my new midwest life.
Capturing my Polish heritage--colorful,
bold, but still only where I can see it
most of the time.
34
Visible. Vibrant. Daisy and
ladybug, four spots for Jane’s four years.
So beautiful.
36
I finished my dissertation.
I deserve more daisies
creeping down my arm.
37
I have a daisy on my toe,
It is not real, it does not grow.
It’s just a tattoo of a flower
So I’ll look neat, taking a shower.
It’s on the second toe of my left foot.
A stem and flower, but there’s no root.
Because… it wouldn’t look good!
A pretty daisy on my toe
My right foot loves my left foot so! --The Smothers Brothers
And this makes six daisies, and
the start of the official Morgan family tattoo.
38
With Amy, who arrives in Boulder
wanting a vine and flowers around her ankle.
The simple excuse I needed
for words, about love, what my father taught me
about living a life.
Live, act, speak through love.
Marked on me.
Forever.
39
The words sprout a tree.
A love tree.
Jane’s initials.
A peace sign for Paul.
Nine, red, heart-shaped flowers
for Jane’s nine years.
40
A farm now rests beneath the tree.
The barn, circa pre-1974 tornado.
The place where my mother learned love, care, empathy,
and cookies.
My grandfather’s 1982 red Dodge Ram,
drives to the farmhouse,
taking him home.
40
Matryoshka. Polish.
Zerwin was Zwierzynski.
Jane,
me,
Verna Su,
Sarah Jane and Eleanor,
Elizabeth, Pearl, Tecla, and Francis
The string of mothers before me.
41
My father’s childhood home
that defined family for him. Laughter, love--
these things he taught many of my favorite people
over 10-day summer adventures
with fishing stories, and slow laps in the row boat,
and rocks across Lost Lake,
and solitaire and poker, great food and conversation,
in cabin 25.
Columbine, fireweed, Indian paintbrush,
the wildflowers that carpet the aspen forest
surrounding Mesa Lake.
“So it goes,” says Vonnegut. And it does.
Heavily researched with Kuhrt.
Egyptian hieroglyphics.
Mine--the left eye of Ra, the moon,
crying a tear of faith, hope, and love.
His--mysterious Kuhrt language they say now.
Nobody knows what it means.
But I remember.
20
With Heather, horrified, in
a Denver studio.
Seeking balance.
Yin/Yang hand, to remind me.
22
Leaving college. Leaving childhood.
Leaving a version of me behind (but
taking my nickname with me).
With Jeni Rae (sunburst on her foot)
and Jay (navel piercing)
24
Daisies. With Paul.
Olympia.
First Christmas.
Our wedding flower.
28
Getting braver in my new midwest life.
Capturing my Polish heritage--colorful,
bold, but still only where I can see it
most of the time.
34
Visible. Vibrant. Daisy and
ladybug, four spots for Jane’s four years.
So beautiful.
36
I finished my dissertation.
I deserve more daisies
creeping down my arm.
37
I have a daisy on my toe,
It is not real, it does not grow.
It’s just a tattoo of a flower
So I’ll look neat, taking a shower.
It’s on the second toe of my left foot.
A stem and flower, but there’s no root.
Because… it wouldn’t look good!
A pretty daisy on my toe
My right foot loves my left foot so! --The Smothers Brothers
And this makes six daisies, and
the start of the official Morgan family tattoo.
38
With Amy, who arrives in Boulder
wanting a vine and flowers around her ankle.
The simple excuse I needed
for words, about love, what my father taught me
about living a life.
Live, act, speak through love.
Marked on me.
Forever.
39
The words sprout a tree.
A love tree.
Jane’s initials.
A peace sign for Paul.
Nine, red, heart-shaped flowers
for Jane’s nine years.
40
A farm now rests beneath the tree.
The barn, circa pre-1974 tornado.
The place where my mother learned love, care, empathy,
and cookies.
My grandfather’s 1982 red Dodge Ram,
drives to the farmhouse,
taking him home.
40
Matryoshka. Polish.
Zerwin was Zwierzynski.
Jane,
me,
Verna Su,
Sarah Jane and Eleanor,
Elizabeth, Pearl, Tecla, and Francis
The string of mothers before me.
41
My father’s childhood home
that defined family for him. Laughter, love--
these things he taught many of my favorite people
over 10-day summer adventures
with fishing stories, and slow laps in the row boat,
and rocks across Lost Lake,
and solitaire and poker, great food and conversation,
in cabin 25.
Columbine, fireweed, Indian paintbrush,
the wildflowers that carpet the aspen forest
surrounding Mesa Lake.
“So it goes,” says Vonnegut. And it does.
Monday, May 12, 2014
Ugh the snow
Ugh.
The snow.
If it were October,
I would be giddy at the soft flakes
cascading
down,
tugging at the already ready to fall leaves,
blanketing the last living flowers into sleep,
reminding me of quiet, snowy nights.
But it's May.
The snow will rip the baby leaves
AND THEIR BRANCHES
from the trees
before they are able to shade us from the hot summer sun.
It will smother the fledgling vegetable gardens.
Tulips, lilacs--the flowers will die.
I will not wear my winter coat,
or gloves,
or a hat.
I will not shovel any snow
or remove it from the windshield.
It is time for sunshine and warmth,
for a light jacket and no socks,
for windows open at night,
for putting the space heater away.
Not for cold and seeing snowflakes
in the umbrella of orange
beneath the streetlight outside my house.
The snow.
If it were October,
I would be giddy at the soft flakes
cascading
down,
tugging at the already ready to fall leaves,
blanketing the last living flowers into sleep,
reminding me of quiet, snowy nights.
But it's May.
The snow will rip the baby leaves
AND THEIR BRANCHES
from the trees
before they are able to shade us from the hot summer sun.
It will smother the fledgling vegetable gardens.
Tulips, lilacs--the flowers will die.
I will not wear my winter coat,
or gloves,
or a hat.
I will not shovel any snow
or remove it from the windshield.
It is time for sunshine and warmth,
for a light jacket and no socks,
for windows open at night,
for putting the space heater away.
Not for cold and seeing snowflakes
in the umbrella of orange
beneath the streetlight outside my house.
Monday, March 17, 2014
P: Pepperoni
Urbana, Illinois, 2003
I didn't want to see the movie Old School.
Amy and I and our husbands and a bunch of their running group buddies went to the movies. When we got there, the men all wanted to see Old School. I didn't. Amy didn't care. So I ended up going to see Old School instead of something I thought would be more redeeming.
The University of Illinois is home to one of the largest greek systems in the entire country. And when we walked into the theatre, every single fraternity brother from the university was there, filling all of the rows except for the very first one. That's where we sat.
I was terrified. I remembered years ago at a CU football game how there were fraternity brothers throwing pepperoni at people. I never knew why. But they thought it was really funny.
So there at Old School, I worried and waited for the pepperoni slices to start flying. How long until there would be one landing on my forehead or in my hair or on my shoulder or slapping me on the cheek?
There were no pepperoni slices in the theatre. Those fraternity brothers never even threw popcorn at us. But they certainly howled with laughter at all of the funny moments in the movie.
Except for the one where Will Farrell says that he's too busy to party because of the big day at Home Depot the next day. WE (the old people in the front row) laughed at that line. That was our world at the time.
I didn't want to see the movie Old School.
Amy and I and our husbands and a bunch of their running group buddies went to the movies. When we got there, the men all wanted to see Old School. I didn't. Amy didn't care. So I ended up going to see Old School instead of something I thought would be more redeeming.
The University of Illinois is home to one of the largest greek systems in the entire country. And when we walked into the theatre, every single fraternity brother from the university was there, filling all of the rows except for the very first one. That's where we sat.
I was terrified. I remembered years ago at a CU football game how there were fraternity brothers throwing pepperoni at people. I never knew why. But they thought it was really funny.
So there at Old School, I worried and waited for the pepperoni slices to start flying. How long until there would be one landing on my forehead or in my hair or on my shoulder or slapping me on the cheek?
There were no pepperoni slices in the theatre. Those fraternity brothers never even threw popcorn at us. But they certainly howled with laughter at all of the funny moments in the movie.
Except for the one where Will Farrell says that he's too busy to party because of the big day at Home Depot the next day. WE (the old people in the front row) laughed at that line. That was our world at the time.
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Ode to Senioritis (and my seniors)
Of course your homework isn't done.
It's 89 days until graduation
and the sun is shining.
Your friends are distracting you.
It's not your fault.
There are geese to chase at the park.
Your dog ate your backpack.
No joke.
And you ran out of gas on the way to school.
You'll get to work
maybe after you finish your paper airplane.
You'll look at me through
the telescope you just made out of your writer's notebook.
I can take it. Really I can.
You are not the first group of seniors
I've lived through a second semester with.
Even though your friends will show up with coffee
at the classroom door,
I will still ask you to write.
Even though you'll play Flappy Bird
behind Kesey's pages,
I will still ask you to read.
You won't even care anymore
if you have the option to attend or not.
Won't even believe it
when I ask you to get up and move across the room
to put some thoughts on a sticky note on a poster.
Exhausted by the weight
of high school ending
and whatever's next looming
(not totally in focus yet)
and the impending good byes
and the last time you'll walk up the ramps,
or play foosball in the senior lounge,
or get to school early enough to get your favorite parking spot...
The affliction is real,
the only cure graduation.
And in the mean time
I will cherish every moment.
Because you will leave
and I will still be here
when you maybe come back to visit the Castle.
But
we
will never
be here
in this place
at this time
together
again.
It's 89 days until graduation
and the sun is shining.
Your friends are distracting you.
It's not your fault.
There are geese to chase at the park.
Your dog ate your backpack.
No joke.
And you ran out of gas on the way to school.
You'll get to work
maybe after you finish your paper airplane.
You'll look at me through
the telescope you just made out of your writer's notebook.
I can take it. Really I can.
You are not the first group of seniors
I've lived through a second semester with.
Even though your friends will show up with coffee
at the classroom door,
I will still ask you to write.
Even though you'll play Flappy Bird
behind Kesey's pages,
I will still ask you to read.
You won't even care anymore
if you have the option to attend or not.
Won't even believe it
when I ask you to get up and move across the room
to put some thoughts on a sticky note on a poster.
Exhausted by the weight
of high school ending
and whatever's next looming
(not totally in focus yet)
and the impending good byes
and the last time you'll walk up the ramps,
or play foosball in the senior lounge,
or get to school early enough to get your favorite parking spot...
The affliction is real,
the only cure graduation.
And in the mean time
I will cherish every moment.
Because you will leave
and I will still be here
when you maybe come back to visit the Castle.
But
we
will never
be here
in this place
at this time
together
again.
Thursday, January 30, 2014
Ronald Edition #1: Magic Camera
What can your magic camera see?
Will it show you Carl in space?
Or Liza's epic battle?
Emily's magic camera says your eyes were full of stars.
Take a photo of Sawyer's chickens
As they run beneath Annabel's swing.
Or capture a moment at a dance not usually photographed (Sarah's nose kiss.)
(and here's Sav's)
(and when you're done with that, tell me what poem below says about me and my cats)
(this poem too)
The Cats
They walk through my house on litter box feet--
on my pillow
on the kitchen counter
across the dining room table.
They leave their hair everywhere.
Sometimes even in my food.
They stand behind corners of walls and
swipe at legs and feet as they go by.
They hiss at the dog.
She only wants to play.
They nuzzle but then bite visitors' heads and
think package ribbons and knitting yarn
are their toys alone.
They yowl in the house at night
chasing pom poms and drowning them
in the water bowl.
They throw up.
They always throw up.
And yowl until you feed them again.
They poop in the house.
In a box.
And then sometimes,
I'll come into a room to find Phoebe
wiggling on the carpet with her tummy to the sky.
She purrs as she wiggles,
looking innocent and sweet
inviting me to rub her belly.
And I do.
But sometimes it's a trap.
Leaving my hand with little tiny scratches by menacing cat claws.
Will it show you Carl in space?
Or Liza's epic battle?
Emily's magic camera says your eyes were full of stars.
Take a photo of Sawyer's chickens
As they run beneath Annabel's swing.
Or capture a moment at a dance not usually photographed (Sarah's nose kiss.)
(and here's Sav's)
(and when you're done with that, tell me what poem below says about me and my cats)
(this poem too)
The Cats
They walk through my house on litter box feet--
on my pillow
on the kitchen counter
across the dining room table.
They leave their hair everywhere.
Sometimes even in my food.
They stand behind corners of walls and
swipe at legs and feet as they go by.
They hiss at the dog.
She only wants to play.
They nuzzle but then bite visitors' heads and
think package ribbons and knitting yarn
are their toys alone.
They yowl in the house at night
chasing pom poms and drowning them
in the water bowl.
They throw up.
They always throw up.
And yowl until you feed them again.
They poop in the house.
In a box.
And then sometimes,
I'll come into a room to find Phoebe
wiggling on the carpet with her tummy to the sky.
She purrs as she wiggles,
looking innocent and sweet
inviting me to rub her belly.
And I do.
But sometimes it's a trap.
Leaving my hand with little tiny scratches by menacing cat claws.
Thursday, January 23, 2014
SLCC Blog Carnival #5: Your human themes for this semester
Our big question for this year is this: How do you read the world to write your future?
Hopefully your research this semester will help you start to figure that out.
How do you write a future full of happiness? What role might control play in such a life? But everything changes, right? How will you ever hold on to your youth? Maybe if you stick together you can do it, despite the difference you will encounter in our crazy world. And then there's money, and the greed that comes with it. Plagued by fear and uncertainty, we'll all wander around, sometimes aimlessly. So look for the love and let it be your guide. Find your passion, collect your experience, question your opinions, and let it all be an adventure, life.
Read your world (and all the texts you get your hands on this semester) with the lens of your theme guiding your thoughts. See what you can find that will enable you to write your own future.
Tristan: happiness
Dana: control
Fenno: control
Addie: change
John: change
Riley: youth
Matt: together
Ian: difference
Kyla: greed
Joey: greed
Colman: greed
Erik: money
Anna: fear
Ben: fear
Ryan: fear
Madelyn: fear
Daelin: uncertainty
Eddie: love
Cecily: passion
Jane: experience
Mike: opinion
Nick: adventure
Emma: equality
Owen: ???????
Mallory: unsatisfied
Hopefully your research this semester will help you start to figure that out.
How do you write a future full of happiness? What role might control play in such a life? But everything changes, right? How will you ever hold on to your youth? Maybe if you stick together you can do it, despite the difference you will encounter in our crazy world. And then there's money, and the greed that comes with it. Plagued by fear and uncertainty, we'll all wander around, sometimes aimlessly. So look for the love and let it be your guide. Find your passion, collect your experience, question your opinions, and let it all be an adventure, life.
Read your world (and all the texts you get your hands on this semester) with the lens of your theme guiding your thoughts. See what you can find that will enable you to write your own future.
Tristan: happiness
Dana: control
Fenno: control
Addie: change
John: change
Riley: youth
Matt: together
Ian: difference
Kyla: greed
Joey: greed
Colman: greed
Erik: money
Anna: fear
Ben: fear
Ryan: fear
Madelyn: fear
Daelin: uncertainty
Eddie: love
Cecily: passion
Jane: experience
Mike: opinion
Nick: adventure
Emma: equality
Owen: ???????
Mallory: unsatisfied
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