Meganleighty’s Blog

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 2^nd 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.