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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.
