The top 5 lessons I learned were:
1. I learned the purpose of the Internet was to share reading and writing and blogging is not the enemy of education.
2. I learned the catharic effect of sharing one’s writing and the bravery it inspires.
3. I learned teachers know a lot about life.
4. I learned authenticity in the classroom is important.
5. I learned I knew something most others didn’t. I was able to teach my fellows about the I-search. I had something to offer to a professional community.
Dear Weblog Reader,
I am beginning to see myself and my work differently since the SI began. As a teacher in a small a district, I often feel isolated, on my own. I have been awe of the impressive, excellent work I have seen my fellows present. I also have had much time to consider what inspires me to teach and write.
That is what inspires me to teach. Interesting stuff – amazing books full of soul and conflict, poetry brimming over with imagery and “meaning,” and cool techniques that open windows to knowledge. I would like to say I do it for the kids and sometimes I do, but, if it were just the kids, I’m not sure I would make it through second semester. Fourteen year olds are endearing on rare occasions. However, through much reflection, I have discovered how much I enjoy the learning experience of being a teacher. I find it irresistible to watch them learn, to actually see knowledge take shape, to have the physical proof of their thoughts before me. As a graduate student in education, I once had a professor ask us to put ourselves in groups according to why we wanted to go into education. One group, small I might add, declared they wanted to impact the lives of students. One group thought it was a wise career move since they had heard of a coming teacher shortage. The largest group, of which I was a member, acknowledged that were simply in love with their subject area. That is why we each spent four years immersed in it. Our professor nodded. This was what she had expected. She said good teachers get into education because they have a love affair with learning and stay because they want to see that love blossom in others. I love my subject area and I believe it is important. Language is the basis of all culture and communication- practically what separates us from the animals. Learning to manipulate language effectively is an art. So many students take their own language for granted, misuse it, under use it, do not recognize it for its potential. Teaching English is important because it is learning to communicate, to enter into discourse with one another and the world- time and space irrelevant. This is what pushed me towards education and the other, “doing it for the kids,” slowly, steadily grows inside of me.
What inspires me to write? Nearly the very same notion. I am fascinated with the ability of something so mysterious and symbolic as language to become concrete words on paper (or screen). To take an idea looping around in one’s head and begin to shape it through the act of writing is constantly mind blowing. I am inspired to write by images I find in my mind. I feel driven to attempt to communicate those emotions or ideas or pictures. I want to make you see it, feel it- the isolation of punishment, the awe of deer on a snowy Christmas Eve, a perfume bottle 1,700 years old. Whether I ever get there or not is another story. That is also why it is important- communicating what was popping and crackling among the synapse of one brain to those of many others.
The collegiate aspect of SI has been the star on top of the tree- or better- the big present underneath. Since our very first sessions I have been gathering ideas large and small that I cannot wait to use in my classroom. I have found more focus for some things and understand now why what I am already doing is really best practices. How much easier not to have to come up with it off the top of your head! Through my sacred writing I’ve discovered that I sometimes really do have something to write about. My excuse for not writing on a regular basis is that I don’t have anything to say. What a cop out! I wouldn’t take that excuse from a student. But through this constant freewriting or wild writing, I’ve found that I do have a few things I need to say and that I really could develop further. I’m not much of a poet (i.e. see perfume bottle piece), but I’ve been willing to give it a try. I’ve discovered I use masses of words and enjoy delving into the sea of synonyms or cracking words open to see what hides inside. In the future, I am going to attempt to practice more of what I preach- to write myself, maybe even to use as modeling. I may even try blogging. Maybe . . .
No doubt that my teaching practice will see the effect of SI long term. Although my teaching practices were haphazard in the beginning panic of what to teach and continually influenced by OGT, I attempt to create a student centered, writing immersed classroom. I use freewriting and reflective writing on a nearly daily basis. I find this essential to the practice of teaching- keeping in touch with where my students are in their learning. Through the teaching demonstration my fellows presented, I now have a greater understanding of the mechanics of the metacognition that takes place during these writings. I have also recognized the importance of creating authentic learning experiences for students. Although, upon reflection, I see that the I-search research project fits into the authentic learning paradigm. I hope to create or tweak other units to include more authentic work. I also strive to prove that I can use my teaching practices to prepare my students for the OGT and all other standardized test that loom in the future, meet the standards, and make learning meaningful.
I have chosen the following pieces to include in this portfolio:
The Silent Wall: This is my personal piece. It grew out of a sacred writing prompt about mentor teachers. This memoir-like piece explores a small, but tragic experience I had with a teacher in the second grade. I feel this piece was important to include and write because its consequences have haunted my psyche for years. I began writing about this experience as a junior in high school and have often come back to it as my most significant educational memory. Through this writing experience, I was able to explore in detail the event and its consequences on my own career.
Ethnography June 29, 2009: My ethnography was done in the form of a letter from camp. It was interesting to become an observer-participant, wearing two hats. I took four pages of notes in order to prepare this account. Most of this I did not use because I was worried I would go on and on. It forced me to pay careful attention to my fellows and leaders as they went about the business of SI.
What I Learned from Writing: Finding the Writers In Front of Me: This is my professional piece. I was very concerned about writing the professional piece because I had no idea what it was supposed to be or how to create it. No amount of explanation from Hilde or Peggy or anyone else seemed to help. I stumbled upon this focus again through sacred writing in combination with my demonstration. It merges my experience as a reader, student, and teacher into that as a learner.
Putting the I in Writing: My Search for the I-Search: This was the title of my demonstration, which focused on the I-search paper I do every spring with my sophomore students. This project was enlightening even though its focus was on a project I have been doing for three years. I had never stopped to consider the best practices reflected in this unit or why it works exactly. I confess that I had only ever read one chapter from Ken Macrorie’s landmark book before embarking on this project. Reading the papers he reproduces were reason enough to read it. The actual reviewing of the literature proved to be difficult since Marshall did not directly own any article dealing with the I-search, yet, once I began reading the material, I could not stop writing about why the I-search is such an awesome cognitive tool and excellent for student empowerment and authentic learning. Through this project I became more aware of my own teaching practices.
Small Child Voice’s Obituary: This is a deep revision of my personal piece, “The Silent Wall.” The idea for the obituary as an alternative genre came from William Strong’s book Writing for Insight. It was an interesting experience taking a lengthy piece and compounding it into its essence as one’s life is in the newspaper on Sunday. It only hints at the story behind the life.
My Less Formal Writing consists of the following pieces:
Technology Piece: Technology in My Classroom and Professional Life
Technology Piece: Will Richardson’s Blogs Wikis and Podcasts Activity
Technology Piece: Digital Storytelling Reflection
These technology pieces begin with my rant against technology in the classroom. I bemoan the overbooked computer labs, lack of equipment, and governing bodies. I move to the realization that the Internet was designed to facilitate reading and writing therefore fit for educational uses. I end admitting I could think of several ways to use the technologies of blogging or digital storytelling in my classroom although I still have not overcome problems with allowing this technology usage to take place.
Noun Poem a la Lorie’s Demo
Eulogy to a Comma
Both of the above pieces were produced during demonstrations of my fellows. I enjoyed writing the noun poem the most because I love my chocolate lab Buster Brown. Only the day before writing this did he chew through the wooden gate while my husband was off gathering supplies for my demo. Besides being cute and dear to my heart, it gave me ideas of how to get even low level students writing poetry in my classroom. The eulogy piece is actually something I could use in and of itself within my class. Despite J.D.’s belief that students are only afraid of math, I know many harbor ill feelings toward English grammar. A short activity like this will allow them to stretch their creative writing muscles while they vent and begin to put the knowledge they do have into words they can understand. I thought it was kinda cute, too.
Ekphrastic Poetry
I chose to include this piece because it was my favorite of our field trip writings. It also went through a deep revision of sorts. It started as a jumble of freewriting and morphed slowly into the lines of clumsy verse. I was drawn to the ancient perfume bottle. I saw a mystery in its beauty. I wanted to hold it and know where it had been.
A Christmas Memory
This piece also began as part of a sacred writing. I jumped around in childhood memories before the memory of this night struck me. I fell into its magic and the dream of a child’s Christmas. It is an awe I cannot remember experiencing since. I wanted to grab that moment in time and make it permanent.
The Lean, Mean, Green Machine Narrative
This is the narrative of my digital story. It was a change to write to images. I imagine a script usually comes first in movie making, but I enjoyed the challenge of fitting words to existing images, to tell the story and feelings behind them. I also stretched my imagination in the voice of the car itself- not my usual topic. The car is not me, it’s my husband, but the voice I gave it was its own. It felt legitimate.
Digital Story: The Lean, Mean, Green Machine
This is my pride and joy. When the digital story project was announced, I thought there was no way I could do it. But I did and it was pretty great- in my dad’s eyes anyway. He showed everyone that came over on the Fourth of July.
I was very intimidated by blogs when we were first introduced to them. I thought of blogs as something that weird people on the Internet did late at night about aliens and Michael Jackson, not what real professionals did as writing exercises or to communicate with their professional communities. I’m still a little nervous about them. The warning the union sent out about any web presence by teachers kinda scared me. (Keep clean, Lorie!) However, using the blog has proved priceless throughout summer institute. I enjoy receiving comments from my fellows and having the opportunity to comment on their blogs as well even if just to say, “I hear you!” That is often a priceless commodity in the isolated world of secondary education. I loved Richardson’s idea of doing the book discussion via blog or responding to journals on blogs. It would really open up students to sharing their work in a forum that may be more comfortable than standing in front of the class. I mean if they can post pics of last weekends party on MySpace, posting a journal on Yeats should not be difficult. But I have very little hope of ever using blogging in the classroom. All blogging sites are blocked from school computers and not enough of my students have access to computers outside of school for it to be viable. Also, thereare issues of putting minors on the internet. I know its hypocritical that they post whatever, but the fear of lawsuits looms over us and innocent poetry blogs.
The e-portfolio project has changed the way I use blogs in no way since this is the first blog I have ever done. I imagine for the true blue blogger it means the blog becomes more formal and linked to revision rather than a record of their individual thoughts. As a professional one might use the electronic portfolio in order to show work to potential employers or to share lesson plans, research, and thoughts with colleagues. It would have great potential in the green classroom- no paper, but evidence of all the work! But for reasons alluded to above, this is a pipedream.
I feel ancient. I am, in fact, an antique. Forty-five years- I can’t believe it’s been that long since I rolled of the Mustang assembly line in Dearborn, Michigan- the hay day of my kind. I hear frightening things about my creators these days. And that sleek Toyota looks smugly at me.
My doors squeek and paint is beginning to bubble and itch, but my classic lines hide a powerful 347 Stroker. Enough power to bald a tire! It gleams in my engine compartment. My owner lovingly tends to me- for that I am grateful. Today we go to a carshow.
We begin with a bath in the cool of the morning to avoid water spots on my sparkling finish. We will make the trek to Wheelersburg and park in the shade. Pre-adolescent boys and middle aged men will guak at me. They will ask questions and point beneath my hood. No one notices the bubbles. Later we will head home, but not before I show them what I’m really made of. Gears grinding, hearts racing, I crank up to 6,500 rpm’s. The thrill of power racing with every sense before curising down the highways with the sunset behind me. I’ll be tucked in- percaustions against scratches- to rest for awhile. I am the lean, mean, green machine. That Toyota has nothing on me.
Dearly beloved, we meet today to put to rest the comma. In this life he was often abused and misused to tether long run-on sentences together. We put far too pressure on his weak frame. He was thrown randomly into text as proof of grammar usage. At other times we ignored him entirely leaving our words breathless and tumbling atop one another. Our readers gasped for his life-saving breath. We have argued his fine points. Grammarians dispute his position in the sentence throwing his small curves around and leaving him up to style. His best advice was always to be consistent in his usage. He will join the martyred ranks of grammar saints such as the semicolon and the apostrophe. We would pause in remembrance, but we cannot without him.
Does the following piece work as a professional piece?
Any suggestions?
I am I reader of everything. I read directions, cookbooks, magazines, journals, and all manner of fiction. Reading has been a best friend in the worst of times, an escape from boredom of middle-class, mid-American life, a teacher, a window to the Divine. Lesson one about writing: there can be no reading without first the sweat of writing. Lesson two: writing is hard work. Lesson number three : teaching writing is even harder work.
A few weeks ago my father brought by six large boxes filled with the evidence of my education. I believe every written item I produced from eighth grade to graduate school could be found buried in those binders and musty folders. Why did I keep all this stuff and insist my parents save it years after I left their home? Why will I insist my husband pack it all up to our attic in a few days? I worked hard. These boxes are truly the evidence of my learning. As I perused through their jumble of papers I found several research papers on topics form tuberculosis to Emily Dickenson to wars in Gaza. ( I learned way too much about “consumption” form Victorian novels- I was sure I had TB in eighth grade. Luckily just a bad cold though I made my mom take me to get a test.) I had notes on Chaucer and Hamlet. I had a folder with the start of three ghost stories began in the ninth grade. The introduction admonished the reader to always read with an “open mind.” I was a very serious child.
In my spare room I have a book shelf my father built for me one Christmas. On it abides all the books I hold dear to my heart, the teachers of my mind and spirit. On it can be found the classics I assigned myself for the purpose of my own edification and later utter enjoyment- everything Jane Austin ever wrote (two copies of Pride and Prejudice), Dracula, The House of Seven Gables, Jane Eyre- and those assigned to me because I hadn’t gotten to them yet- 1984, The Scarlet Letter, The Great Gatsby. I see my secret love of the cozy mystery reflected there and an appreciation of the literature of my people. My mother and I fell in love with the poetry in which Appalachia and her people were treated in Fair and Tender Ladies by Lee Smith. Beside my bed, a thick leather bound NIV Bible sits with torn notebook paper as page markers. My husband hates it that I write notes in the margins and use whatever highlighter color I have to mark the passages that speak to me the most since technically it was his Christmas present. Each of these texts has added to my understanding of world, history, the human experience, and how I am a part of God‘s creation.
As a new teacher, I wanted desperately to teach literature. To instill in my students that deep, abiding love of reading that has shaped my life and mind. But I had a problem- in order for my students to interact with these texts they needed to write about them and to write about themselves. To do this my students became the duchess in Browning’s “My Last Duchess”, reworked the words of the great Caesar, and imagined futures Ray Bradbury style. They were learning something about literature, but they weren’t really writers. It wasn’t until I realized that when I allowed them to become writers, I learned about them as learners and people. I began to see things about the world I never knew I didn’t know.
Amazingly- I learn the most from my students’ writing when they become authors of their lives and minds. From their memoirs I learn of countless family vacations, fist loves (suprisingly- mostly penned by boys), time spent in the group home, and how social services really works. They unashamedly bare all onto the page. I glimpse who they are, what issues grab them. Most really want to do something about global warming, are active debaters of politics, and will fight to uphold the 2nd Amendment (the right to bear arms). I learn what they think poetry is and then see it created and hung on my wall. The writing process comes to life before my eyes. Some are already published poets and one is writing a vampire novel.
The greatest learning experience for me is always the I-search project. Students are invited to take control of their own education for a few weeks and find a topic they would like to learn about. This sets the stage for weeks spent in the library and arranging interviews or giving surveys only broken by mini-lessons in MLA. We do still have to meet those standards! Most topics they choose I know almost nothing about before they begin and more than a few I have no desire to know about until their final paper sits before me. I learned just this year the Kiribati Islands are significant to global warming; they are literally sinking into the ocean. I learned the boy in the back row who plays football and is the class clown eats dinner every nigh with his family and they discuss their day. His sister is learning about civil rights in China in a college course. He wants to learn more about that. A girl in first period helps her boyfriend take care of his fighting chickens. Did you know they have to give those chickens vitamins? Like I said- more than I ever wanted to know. More importantly, I begin to see their learning take place, the evidence of their education build.
As a part of the National Writing Process, I have learned and enormous amount from my fellows in the trenches. First- they are all amazing writers. Each morning we are engrossed in sacred writing. It is fast and raw, often humorous and sometimes tearful. These writers seem to fear nothing. As a reader, I suppose I am a voyeur. I love the little snippets of life that can be glimpsed from their writing. Again, I see that writing is hard work, even for the best of them. They shyly pass out copies of their work and listen attentively to suggestions. Revise and repeat. They too work hard to make writing a part of their classrooms, to learn form their students as much as from the research. They teach me how cognition takes place during writing and using writing to reach higher level thinking skills. I learn that technology is not the enemy of writing but a medium of the art. I follow their blogs religiously. Shyly, I even learn that I forgot how much I enjoyed writing, the catharsis, the expression, the act of entering the discourse. My fellows cheer me on. These teachers are writers, these writers are my teachers.
Although I’ll forever cling to my collection of dusty paperbacks and sturdy hardbacks that adorn the shelves of my home and heart, I can not help but to be reminded that what I learn most from writing comes from the writers right in front of me. I am ever aware that the bright faces sitting in neat rows before me have much to learn, much to say, much to write- and much to teach. In that same vein, I can’t help but to realize that I still have so much to learn about writing and myself. Maybe six more boxes from now I’ll have a better idea of exactly what it is I need to learn about. Until then, I would like to renew my dedication to writing and learning from those writers closest to me.
The Silent Wall
Did you ever have one of those teachers? One that might better be called a mentor. A teacher that invited you to spread your wings, broaden your horizons, feel good about yourself? What was his or her name? They probably patted you on the back saying, “Good job! I’m proud of you” with an entirely sincere smile. Why can’t they all be that way?
I have had many excellent mentors and many of them teachers. Men and (mostly) women who saw it their life’s work and joy to guide, counsel, edify, and educate my mind and spirit. I could name them one by one from my Sunday school teacher who cried with me over the Easter story or my high school junior honor’s English instructor who took a firm hand and keen interest and on and on, but it will be those whose shadow still make me shutter that are the reason, I suspect, not every teacher licensed by the state could meet the qualifications of a mentor. Not just the mediocre kind whose names I probably can’t even remember, but the bad kind. The kind that seek to kill the spirit, the joy, the child. The greatest impact a teacher ever had on me was probably in the most negative way .
Second grade- in the late eighties this meant one could read, print neatly simple sentences, add, subtract. What else should a seven year old need to know? In my school, second grade meant quite a move. Physically, as I knew then, and psychologically, as I appreciate now. The kindergarten/first grade corridor was the newer section of the building. The tile was light and creamy. The walls a similar shade. It had more windows- I remember. Light and warmth exuded the surroundings and the personalities that inhabited it. There was a wall of windows from floor to ceiling in the corridor connecting the new and old sections of the building. The older section of the school housed grades two through five, the office, and a large room that served both as the cafeteria and gym (smelly!), which extended the length of one enormous hallway. Far down, at the very end was situated the second grade rooms. This part of the school was darker somehow. The tile was more brown than cream and beaten with the decades of use. It looked tired and yucky. The way you feel after a long week with a head cold. There seemed to be a snot colored green mixed with the brown to finish off the décor.
My classroom was the first in that section, just past the restrooms that separated the second and third grade, far from the distance double doors that were the only source of natural light. My teacher was unfortunate enough to have a last name that I always associate with spooky stories and wore red sweaters with Scotty dogs on them year around. She seemed old at the time, but age is hard the judge at seven . I actually remember very little about her or my classmates. I know I was separated from most of my friends. My best friend Jennifer had a young, pretty teacher with a French sounding name who everyone loved. This teacher wore frosted lipstick, had teased blond hair, and smiled all the time. I was jealous in a longing sort of way.
I remember only two lessons from that year- one distinctly. In the back of the room, my teacher held reading groups. I was in the second reading group- not the first. That meant not really smart. I loved books. My mother and I read through golden books, Bernstein Bears, and the Bopsey Twin mysteries- copies my grandmother read as a girl and reread and reread by two more generations until the pages were worn and the bindings shredding. I still remember the one about the gypsy. But I guess I was not so good at oral reading or whatever those groups were based on. Somehow, though, it was clear we did not quite meet muster. One day we were in dreaded reading groups doing our round robin lesson. I have no idea what the piece was about except for the vague recollection of it being boring. When it was my turn to read, I read my paragraph not with butterflies in my tummy but with iron bars around it. In my nervous state, I pronounced the word “animal” as “aminal,” a term my mother thought was adorable and we used interchangeably at home. The teacher slapped the little yellow table, “The WALL,” was pronounced. My little insides shook with a shame I still feel this moment twenty-one years later. The iron bars twisted, tears crept silently out.
Hours of lessons seemed to creep by waiting for wall time . Strange cursive letters danced meaninglessly before my eyes until lunch time arrived. Silently we marched down. It was a no talking day in the cafeteria. I didn’t care. I didn’t feel particularly like chatting. I just waited with those bars barely loose enough to fit a peanut butter sandwich in. Then there was the march of the “wall kids,” slow and silent compared to the jubilant rush of everyone else. “Stand in box two. Turn around. I said turn around. NO talking!” the aid intoned in warden-fashion.
I spent quite a lot of time on that wall- the brick façade just outside the cafeteria doors on the playground. It was, I suppose, the worst punishment they could devise- recess spent facing a brick wall, always in the shade, always cold, while listening to other children play behind you. I talked too much, out of turn, instead a doing my work, any chance I got- or so I surmise because I have no memory of talking only the dread of opening my mouth. I remember staring at the bulletin board with my lips tightly closed- I would not talk today, I would daydream and stare at the wall, but I would not talk. Years later I found out that this misery did not escape the notice of my mother. At parent teacher conference the verdict was given down. Her daughter was “ a loud mouth brat.” Appeals to the principal did no good although my mother met with them twice. The year was half over. If they moved me, they would have to move everybody, ect. Suffering is said to build character. Suffering teaches lessons to heart and spirit. The lesson I learned was quiet. Not the peaceful, serene, reflective quiet, but rather a fearful and shameful quiet. Talk is bad. I was bad to talk. If I didn’t talk, I was good. And I so wanted to be good.
As a teacher, twenty-one years later, I find it ironic that I make my living talking, so do those who thought they knew me. The lesson, though, still looms in my mind every time I say “shhh.” Isn’t quiet the watch word of school? The rattle of untamed voices in a small room can be overwhelming. A student I had my very first year recalled to me once that I said it seventy-six times in one period- obviously I was making no one be quiet. But I now bite my tongue occasionally- a little talk won’t hurt, but silence might. Tame it, control it, direct it- don’t kill it. Education should tear down walls of oppression, not build them. I look at my students now and wonder- what kind of impact am I making, am I a horror or a mentor? I strive to be the later in all I do.
Childhood is largely made up of waiting impatiently for two things- your birthday and Christmas. By some “accident” of nature those two occasions fall with two weeks of one another for me. Birthdays seemed wrapped in Christmas. December 12th was the day we bought our yearly Frasier Fur or Scott Pine. I treated nativity scenes as dollhouses and twirled in velvet dresses or “Mary” costumes for Christmas pageants. The bobbles and ribbons and sparkle of Christmas was made for a child. The glorious school breaks and tins of cookies. No holiday could be lovelier, even now. But of all these Christmas memories, one stands out as surreal in my mind- greater and more profound than the reality of Christmas mornings under the tree in piles of green and red paper. I wonder if I dreamed it sometimes.
It was a Christmas when it snowed. It wasn’t a dusting or flurries as we are apt to get in Southern Ohio in December before the hard winter months of January and February approach, but it was real snow, inches of cold, white down floating above the landscape. I remember going to my Grandfather’s in Getaway- over the hill and through the woods are concise directions. There were always presents, yet I don’t remember what gifts were given and received. I remember sledding on bright orange plastic things and antique wooden ones you had to steer. Down the hill we would go into the pitch of night. The only light shone from the picture window far above in the house. The glee of small children pierced the solemn peace of the veiled valley. The sky was a velvet blanket of coal as the stars rose to form constellations of sparkling diamonds. Our voices echoed against the hillsides that encircled us bouncing our laugher back into our ears. Later we would stand by the fireplace- a real fire that cracked and snapped the freshly cut logs- to thaw our benumbed finger tips. Sleep came heavy on our eyes. We were carried as lumps of warm exhaustion to the car, strapped in securely, left to dreams of flying into a dark night on a sled.
We drove home with the brightness pure white brings to the darkest of December nights- the earth silent and expectant, remembering the gift of a night two thousand years before. Beside a field blanketed with snow my father slowed the station wagon. Pointing through the windshield he murmured. Our sleep laden eyes followed the trajectory drawn for us by his gloved hand. Our little eyes widened in wonderment. Three deer stood twitching just out of reach. The light of a rising moon reflecting off the alabaster sheen of snow outlined their forms with a surreal clarity. They were ethereal beings caught in their journey as time slowed-
“Reindeer-“ we breathed.
Delving into the genre of digital storytelling has been an incredible adventure. When Ian first announced we would be making digital videos and writing narratives, I was not really on board. It seemed like a lot to techie jabber in the middle of SI. I had real pieces of writing to put together. I was also nervous about using the expensive and tiny video camera we were required to check out. But I dutifully signed my name and crossed my fingers. The video I came up with is shaky at best. The camera jumps around in my awkward hand. Yet I learned to use it proficiently in only a few moments. I felt like an expert when I explained the mechanism to my husband. So that wasn’t so hard. The narrative writing wasn’t so bad either. I knew may basic idea- my husband’s classic 65 Mustang and its trip to a car show in Wheelersburg- and I knew the footage I had. After some stopping and starting, I came up with a monologue of the event told from the cars perspective. My writing group then helped me polish it a bit.
The recording was the worst part. I hate the sound of my own voice. I can’t believe I really sound like that- kinda squeaky. It was also difficult to read with no mistakes and pausing in only the right places. Luckily- mine messed up twice. Once a mic failure and the second time, well we won’t name names. The software we used to make the recording was very interesting. I liked how Lorie’s sounded like a little kid, but, when Ian tried to clean mine up, it sounded to computer-like. I would have to live with noisy. It sounds kinda retro though, so it fit well with my theme. Putting the video together was easier than expected. The Microsoft Muvee Maker was surprisingly simple to use. (I gather others had problems using MAC products though). Posting to the web was also a breeze. Why haven’t I done something like this before? I’m getting one of those cute cameras for Christmas!
The real purpose of this was to show us technology shy fellows a new way to integrate technology into our classrooms. I admit- it was pretty simple with Ian leading us gently by out hands. I could see this used potentially in many situations in my classes. It might be a cool way to use advertising. Instead of making posters or actual videos on cassettes, students could create pieces this way. My yearbook staff might create a video to promote our book (I might use this one). The storytelling portion is also perfect for short, creative writing pieces. Using the technology took nothing away from using the writing process. In fact it added another dimension to it. We were forced to adapt our language to images that already existed, giving them voice and character and depth that is often missing on paper. Adding an additional layer to writing might interest students who are more oriented to TV than books. the short length is also very approachable. The only draw back to using this is technology. My students certainly would not have access to any cool little cameras. I supp0se we could use still photos though and things we could legally use from the Internet. I would have to figure out the mic thing though. The social studies teacher down the hall does several projects with Muvee Maker. Perhaps I should investigate that further.
I’m not sure it would be applicable to use in my actual teaching since playing the video would present challenges. (A tube like sites blocked!) Can you burn these to DVD’s? Though as I’m thinking about this. It might be an excellent method to introduce students to library research. I could do a short “story” of finding a book or using an on-line database. Oral and visual instructions could be posted for students to refer to at home when doing an out of school project.
I’m really excited about the potential of using the digital storytelling genre in my personal writing. Lots of people post videos of their children, pets, and funny things to You Tube for family members and others to watch. But rarely have I seen a You Tube video with a story to go along with it. I enjoyed the melding of images and words- each bringing life to the other, providing something the other was missing before. I would like to do a story on my Christmas tree, the ornaments and decorations. Maybe I’ll ask for that camera for my birthday instead!
Voice, Small Child, 7, of South Point Elementary, second grade formerly of Megan McNeely. Small Voice tragically killed in collision during a round robin reading lesson with a teacher wearing a red, Scotty dog sweater. Small Voice endured an extended illness on the Wall and No Talking Cafeteria Days. Many families of small, exhuberant children will sympathize with Small’s heartbreaking plight.
Small Voice enjoyed laughing and squealing with friends on the playground. She took great joy in whispering over peanut butter sandwiches and milk in the cafeteria or pointing at colorful illustrations in children’s books with classmates in the library. The sunny first grade days were sorely missed during her illness. She dreamed of becoming a scientist, artist, or cheerleader.
Small Voice is survived by strong character and a determination to tame the talk, control the talk, direct the talk- but never kill talk in students. An active imagination and love of books remain although voice has withered.
Private services were held in the family home. A celebration of Voice will commence when she steps before her students, smiling and calling class to order in a confident voice.
Sending flowers is always encouraged.
