assumptions

I had to take a biology quiz yesterday; I received a six out of eight.  My daughter taught the lesson, and she guided me through the whole complicated cell reproduction process.    However, on the quiz, I made what I thought to be an educated guess at the first answer.  I immediately crossed out an answer since I assumed that definition was not possible.  I saw two terms I did not remember being applied to the lesson, so out it went.  Well, I was mistaken.  Minus one right from the get-go.

What do you know about plagiarism?  I hope you know that you cannot use another writer's words or even ideas without giving her credit.  You must cite your sources.  But what if you lived in a different country.  Do you think the same stringent rules on crediting sources holds?  The assumption is that everyone knows you have to give credit.  Futhermore, we also know that you don't have to agree with the critic.  In fact, you can cite the source and then go on to disprove the source.

Well, once again I was mistaken.  My student from a former Communist country has not learned the same lessons.  In fact, she was penalized for disagreeing with a critic in her home country.  In some cases it was better for her friends to use someone else's writing so as not to sound less intelligent.  No credit was needed.

Life is in the details.  Mistakes can be made so quickly.  I have been reminded to ask questions before I simply jump to a conclusion.  What seems obvious just might need more clarification.  That's not so hard now is it?  

The American Dream

What do you think is the American Dream?  Are you living it?  Is it freedom? Success? Wealth? Happiness?  Who can reach the American Dream?  The hardworking? The educated?  New immigrants?  

Jonas, from Ethiopia, is a custodian who fastidiously attends to Room 304b.  Often, we have conversations about acquiring the English language; his family in Ethiopia; and his schooling.  Yesterday's discussion centered on children.  He is convinced that American freedom is in jeopardy since white Christian Americans tend only to have two children while minorities, such as Hispanics and Muslims tend to have more than two children.  I steered the conversation toward education.  For it must be that the freedoms and rights of our country rest in our education system rather than in the mercy of various cultures.  We are the great melting pot.  We are the most diverse country in the world.  If we begin to fear other cultures and other religions, than we are bound to be a separate nation.  A nation pleading for isolation of others such as Northern Ireland or Israel.  

My faith in our country rests in education.  The American Dream can easily be shattered if it only means monetary wealth.  Whatever trouble Tiger Woods might be in, money is not going to solve his problems.  If the American Dream is only success it can easily crumble.  Any business owner or financial planner can attest to the crashing economy making success as fragile as china plate resting cockeyed on a shelf while a bull brushes past.  The American Dream must connect the people of our land to history, to literature, to science, to understanding of others.  The constant hope is that we continue to build an understanding of what it means to be a member of humanity; an understanding that fear can lead to hatred which can lead to war which leads to death and breeds the cycle again.  Freedom must be accompanied with the education of all and the desire to eradicate fear of those who are different.

My faith also rests in God.  A God of forgiveness and grace.  A God who taught us to pray: "Thy kingdom come."  This kingdom of God can not be one of fear and hatred.  How then can we love our neighbor if we do not know our neighbor?  Education is a starting place, and living in the world and with God's people is a way to make education a journey rather than only a destination.  

Tomorrow, I'll tell Jonas a bit more about The Great Gatsby.  A man whose dream was ultimately shattered.  Maybe there is something more he and I can teach each other about this American Dream.  The dream that spans across mighty oceans and continents that allows one man from an African nation to receive an education and to be free from oppression.  In the end, I think I have found my definition of the American dream by knowing a man from Africa who works as a custodian in order to go to school in a country where he is free to dream.  I guess he is wondering who will keep this dream alive for the next generation.

Shoes on my feet

Last week as I was walking into school, I must have felt something unusual as I walked.  I can only assume this is the reason that I looked down at my feet to see that I was wearing two different shoes.  Now before you jump to any wild conclusions about my lack of sanity, I must explain.  The shoes were both brown and both made by Dansko, the same shoe company.  I had the giggles that made my hike up the 35 stairs that take me from the parking lot up to the second floor and then up again to the third floor even harder than usual.  The giggles turned into downright hysterics leaving my mascara running down my cheeks.  

I vowed I would keep my mistake a secret.  That was until I remembered another funny shoe story.  Last Christmas I was at a party with friends from school.  One of the women had to leave early to take tickets for the basketball game.  We said our goodbyes and off she went.  I mingled for quite a while longer and then it was time for me to head for home.  I went to put on my black Danskos and immediately knew something was amiss.  One shoe felt like mine, but it was quite obvious the other shoe was, oh let's just say, too small for my size 9 1/2 foot.  Could it be?  Yep, the friend that left for the basketball game was in such a hurry that she didn't notice she was wearing size 6 on one foot and 9 1/2 on the other foot.  I hobbled into the game, swapped shoes, and then I headed for home.  I knew she was one person who would appreciate my mismatched shoes.  She did!

One more shoe story.  I have hated my big feet ever since I was about six years old.  My most vivid memory is shoe shopping at Kinney's Shoes.  I chose a really cute pair of tennis shoes.  There were three eyelets for the laces.  I excitedly waited for the clerk to bring out my size.  I sat swinging my legs on the little stool in anticipation.  When he brought out the shoes in my size, I argued with him, for these were NOT the shoes I had chosen.  I marched over to the counter to retrieve the sample shoe I wanted.  I counted the eyelets for him to ensure he understood.  In the end, I left the store in tears without a pair of shoes.  

I never wanted anyone to notice my big feet.  Comments about my big feet used to leave me in tears: "Wow, I never knew you had such huge feet!"  Or "I thought you would be taller with such big feet."  But fretting over my feet never made them smaller nor did it make me feel better.  But laughing at myself certainly made me feel lighter, happier, and unabashed.  It's good to grow up!  

Sol Invitcus

Recently, I found out that the celebration of Christ's birth was moved to December 25 to transform a previous pagan worship of the sun, Sol Invitcus.  So rather than worshiping the light of sun, Christians could worship Christ as the Light of the World.  My first question is what were the pagans doing worshipping the sun during the darkest part of the year?  To me, if you want to worship the sun, you do it anywhere in let's say, June, July, or August.  So that part I simply don't get.  My second question is what do the powers that be (Romans? Catholics?) think about the worshipping pagans now?  So they (Romans) thought that by plunking in the grand celebration of Christ's birth the pagans would suddenly stop worshipping something other than the creator.  No dice.  Nope, ain't happening.  

Trust me, I might be prone to worship the sun if it were shining more than four hours a day (in addition to my worship of Christ the King, of course!).  Sun light is a pretty essential factor.  Just ask your doctor to check your Vitamin D level and you'll discover the necessity of sunlight.  But instead of the natural light of the sky, blinking white, pink, red, green and now neon blue lights litter my neighbors' yards in hopes to do what?  Draw attention to the birth of the Saviour?  Or, shed some colorful light on a really dark night since the sun has just up and left the sky?  I'm not sure.  The lights covering trees and trimming houses are a comfort on a dark night.  They are beautiful when they shimmer and glitter.  But that is because it is so very dark outside, so very dark when we are all still awake and trying to go about our productive lives. 

I guess the attempt by the State of Rome to eliminate a pagan holiday by replacing it with the most holy of days has kind of mussed it all up.  For it seems to me, we still have a pagan holiday, but it is smothering the birth of a Savoir.  Maybe Christ's birth should be celebrated on the real day of his birth.   December is dark and cold.  It is a month to be mindful of the need for light, for pure essential light.   I just wish Christ got all the attention on His day.

English Teacher Comments

Dennis Anderson wrote an article for the Star Tribune about his English professor from the University of Minnesota-Morris. He writes: "An irony of great teaching is that it's a rare gift students don't appreciate until too much time has passed to acknowledge it graciously." Perhaps this is true. Perhaps it is true for far too many professions whereby we forget to thank someone for a job well done in order to help, serve, or encourage.

This weekend Sam was devastated that his English teacher wrote comments to help him improve his writing. He needed to add details that would help the reader see the scene. In addition, he needed organization. Of course, this brought him to tears since he felt he had worked on it--he had changed a few words. The piece he has now is witty and fun. After the tears were gone and the energy was renewed, he filled two pages with details about Thanksgiving and our crazy storytelling family. In fact, he even admitted this draft is much better than the older one. But he did not thank his English teacher for encouraging him to make his story better. Maybe he will...someday.

On Friday at the school play, I saw a former student who is now attending St. Thomas University. She was beaming when she told me she received 100% on her first paper in college. She went on to say how appalled she is at other student's writing. Being in this new environment has given her a new appreciation for her high school, maybe even for her English teacher.

My dilemma is clear. The way I "encourage" a student could potentially bring tears on a Saturday afternoon. Hopefully, there are more alums proud of their writing and thankful for the teachers who helped by correcting and directing.

Balloon Boy would soar in Fahrenheit 451

My freshmen students began reading Fahrenheit 451 last week.  It was a grand start with a lively discussion about books.  Memories were shared and stories unfolded as storybook after storybook was recounted with vivid details.   There was minimal prodding from me to get the answer I was looking for: reading is essential to who we are.  Really, fourteen-year-olds readily volunteered that answer.  Bradbury would be so proud--or would he?

I have been, just like you I'm sure, watching the story--the drama--now the fable of the Colorado boy unfold as he was once was thought to be floating to the land of Oz but who was really napping in the attic.  The "put me on tv" dad found a way to get himself on tv, that's for sure.  No one can doubt his ingenuity.  Except for the fact that that UFO looking device resembled the Jiffy Pop popcorn container more than it did a legitmate flying device.  Buy anyway, that's not the point.  Is there a point?  Yep.  He knows what our culture wants.  Drama. Entertainment. On TV.  

So, would Bradbury be proud?  I guess there is a conflicting message.  On the one hand, we (at least my students) claim they love reading.  On the other hand, we love the sensational story that comes from lands far away and floats across our living rooms to bring us something to wonder about, to question, to be entertained by.  

For me, my lessons in room 304b have now been all the more fortified.  And so for tomorrow twenty five more pages of reading are due.  We march on to discover what Bradbury knew over fifty years ago.  Our culture is threatened by the insatiable need to be entertained; however, if my students are right, we can satiate that need with books just as well as screens and fast action.  If you think I'm a Pollyanna, well you are right.  And if you don't know who Pollyanna is, well you have some reading to do! 

God will be with you...

I visited the World Vision "Step into Africa" exhibit yesterday.  I placed the earphones on my ears and a rhythmic, soothing voice hummed Emmanuel's story into my ears.  The journey began in a small hut made to look like the home he shared with his mother and brother before his mother died from Aids and before the hut collapsed from heavy rains.  It wasn't too long until tears were streaming down my cheeks.  How can a 9-year-old boy become the parent?  How do two children survive in a banana plantation?  What is my responsibilty to this epidemic, this global crisis?  I continued on Emmanuel's journey discovering that World Vision found him and his brother, provided them real shelter, and are helping the boys pursue their dreams of becoming doctors.  At the end of my journey, the soothing voice announced Emmanuel's diagnosis: HIV negative--AMEN!  

In response to the stories, people wrote and posted prayers and thoughts in the chapel.  Many pleaded earnestly to know how to help; to be broken in order to do what matters; and yet, far too many comments seemed too trite, too canned--"God will be with you" or "God will answer your prayers" or even "Hang in there."  Really?   

There is none of Emmanuel's story that I can begin to imagine for me or for my children.  The loss of both parents? The scorn of extended family and community?  The loss of all earthly possessions?  The loss of a house?   What is my response?  If we declare "God will answer your prayers" and do not respond by action, how then can God work?  If I give only words, do I give anything? 

I hope we do more than say "you'll get through it" when what might be needed is an extended hand to walk through those dark valleys and the chance to help someone feel the love of God.  

A new kitchen sends me to the wilderness

Eight weeks have been spent designing, gutting, building.  Tomorrow we leave it all behind for rocks, dirt, water, sky, and trees.  The BWCA!  Perhaps this is the modern age way of finding balance.  Would I need to cook over a fire if I didn't just install a stove that one needs a computer tech degree to operate?  Will I appreciate the new stainless steel behemoths all the more upon my return after cooking in the dirt, washing in the lake, eating on the rock?  Is this what drives me to want to be without toilet, sink, fridge, counter? Is it only the desire to appreciate what I have?

Maybe what drives me more is the desire to be centered.  I believe I will know more about myself from having to rely on myself.  I will look across the still waters to find a loon caring for her babe and be brought back to something at the core of me.  I will stare up at the northern lights dancing and cavorting in the cloudless sky and allow myself to imagine.  I will watch my children create games with sticks, dirt, and bark and will find a place of peace inside.

Then I will return to the comfort and the race of this life I have designed and built but with a renewed sense of who I am, with a reminder of the joy of imagining, and the security of peace.

Off to find that mosquito repellent.

Carl Dreads Going to Work-Do I care?

I guess it really is the proverbial love-hate relationship.  I enjoy, maybe love is too strong of a word, seeing pictures and getting small morsels of a person's life.  Here is a brief list of the fun:  Paula is waiting for carnitas; Leah is counting the days until a trip to Wisconsin Dells; and Maddie scored 100% on the Taylor Swift contest.  I might not know this information about my family were it not for facebook, so finding about tidbits about someone's whereabouts, travels, interests keeps me logging in and finding out the latest "wall postings."

However, do I need/want/desire or should I know that Carl dreads going to work today; Blair is not sleeping well; the Swanson's eat too much cereal?  (Names have been changed to protect the innocent.)  C'mon, where else in living history was one able to access the not-so-vital inner-workings of another's life?  Or when was it necessary to share with the world what is a common, everyday truth: all would rather the weekend one day longer; sleep is elusive (I write this at 2:15 am); and if it is in the pantry, refrigerator, or on the counter, a child will eat it.  These are well-documented, hard and fast facts.  What is compelling us to tell one another about the mundane?  What is compelling me to keep reading it?

I walk my poochie three times a day: up the sidewalk, down the sidewalk, and around the block.  On these daily, habitual walks, I see two neighbors on a regular basis, but I do not speak more than a hello to them.  Everyday, three times a day, I am walking, circling, pounding pavement and no one is outside!  Not only that, but there is rarely a chit chat.  Of course, it is far too hasty a claim to say people are all logged into facebook checking someone's status or filling in their "What's on your mind?" box.  No, that is not my claim.  But maybe all these mundane comments would have more of a filter if front porches that were made for sitting is where people sat.

For now, I will keep on with this new electronic craze.  Don't be fooled; I have found the down arrow that allows me to "hide" those with the banal, hackneyed, tiresome comments.  

A Jar of Pickles

Here is how I remember it:
We are sitting at the dining room table: mother is at the head with Ross directly across from her. Grandpa Willard is to the right of my brother with Grandma Clara next to him. I sit to the left of Ross with Liz to the right of mother. It is my 10th birthday. The conversation has been lively, the food hot and good, and the anticipation for my presents growing with each passing minute. Grandpa and Grandma are extra excited about giving me my gift. They exchange glances and giggles. I am thrilled to see what is inside the extra big and extra heavy package.

Finally, happy birthday is sung, candles are extinguished, and dishes are cleared. My gifts are laid before me. I know which gift I will open first. With great zeal, I tear into the package. All eyes watch me as I rip into the paper, then the box, and behold my gift. The laughter ripples around the table. Grandpa and Grandma are delighted by their surprise. And immediately, as I raise the gift from the box, I burst into tears.

Yesterday, I visit my 97-year-old grandma at the care center. She is dressed in her navy skirt, pink sweater, blue pearls, and pink-as-a-petal lipstick. She is darling. She greets me from her wheelchair-all smiles, yet searching for who I am. After introductions, she grasps again that I am her granddaughter. We look through new photos; I share stories of my kids; and I ask questions. Mother is also with us. She has with her the two poems Grandma memorized in 8th grade. If my math is correct, the year was 1925 when she committed the two-page poems to memory. I create a lesson plan in my head for next year's 9th graders; they will have a gift to give their grandchildren. I have with me some recipes and she looks over the rice pudding recipe written in her gentle scrawl. I see a few memories percolating in her mind. Memories too percolate in my mind and I ask her if she remembers her bread and butter pickles. "How did you cut those cucumbers so thin?" I ask. She doesn't know. "Did you have to soak them in vinegar?" I ask hoping to jog something in her memory. She doesn't recall. Soon this part of our conversation is over; she is hoping she has some roast beef made for me to take home to my husband. She knows that Grandpa, who sadly has not been with us for 19 years, would love some roast beef and mashed potatoes. It is a bitter sweet moment.

Last week, I bought "State Fair" quality bread and butter pickles at the grocery store. I was more than disappointed. They are cut too thick for my liking, they are not sweet enough, they do not resemble Grandma's homemade kind.

The birthday gift I received for my 10th birthday-the biggest monster jar of Grandma's bread and butter pickles you have ever seen. Oh how I wish I could erase my tearful response. Oh how I wish I could taste Grandma's pickles again and could hear Grandpa's laughter. Oh how I wish that when we were young we could appreciate the love, beauty, and generosity of what we are given. Grandma doesn't remember how to make her pickles and I never learned. And anything store bought is never the same.

Lulu.com-your poetry has been published

Hey Graduates,

You've been published!

Here is a link to help you find the poetry collection put together from my four periods of 12th grade English.

http://www.lulu.com/commerce/index.php?fBuyContent=7051553&fBuyProductType=print&cid=en_email_pt_pubcomplete_add-to-cart

A special thanks to Ms. G. and Anna Marie (Tino) for coordinating this publication.

I hope it is something you will keep and will share with others.

The Sun is Dancing

Twenty-two vacant desks line the classroom while the sun sneaks under the straggly green window shades and makes its way to dance on the bare desktops.  A few discarded pencils cradled in the pencil holders remain, but all paper, books, backpacks have vanished.   The cerulean blue bulletin board remains lined with images of Hamlet's questioning of humanity; life; and our eternal existence: from dust to dust.  It sets a nostalgic mood. I too am set to question and wonder about "how noble in reason and infinite in faculty" we are formed and made and yet, how like dust, time simply vanishes, is no more. In the background the halls are echoing silence.  No laughter; no Broland; no Job calls; no rap; nothing but silence.

I can feel my heart beating in my chest as I search for the words to say; I want to reflect on the wonder of this year, but my heart is anxious to put my thoughts into words.  Should I try to say goodbye?  Should I try to make an insightful comment about moving on, about following dreams; about finding one's self.  No, I say to my heart,  just sit in this silent moment and think about the beauty, wonder, laughter, thoughts, and challenges that occurred in room 304b.  

I see the faces of my students as I look across those empty desks.  Conversations resonate in my head and a smile sweeps across my face as I recall the students who have graced me with their unique talents, their thoughtfulness, their zany ways; and their myriad of insights.  This isn't like dust at all--these memories dancing in my head while the sun dances on the desks won't just disappear.  The memories will fade and change just as the sun fades and changes as the time of the year changes but they won't disappear.  

For now, I will celebrate the beauty of spring, the peace of the hallways, and the joy of sending seniors onto their next step in their journey.  In the fall, I will look for the rays of the sun on the desks before a new year begins, and I will remind myself of why I teach.  I will remind myself this classroom is about understanding that we has humans, as those who are "noble in reason and infinite in faculty," must continue to consider, in the words of Shakespeare: "what is a man" and find a definition for who we are and who we are to become.

A Sunflower; A Bird; Fireworks

A sunflower:

There is a move in yoga called a sunflower; I love it.  You stand with your feet shoulder width apart and with your hands raised above your head.  In a grand sweeping motion, bring your hands swooping down to the ground in front of you while bending your knees and gather the air in front of you while criss-crossing your hands.  Return your hands to the sky while straightening your knees: repeat.  Smile.

A bird:

Driving up Pelham Road, I have felt giddy the last two weeks.  Lining the hill are maple trees with lemon-lime fluffy pompoms of leafy substance.  They seem to sing with joy.  In an attempt to share the joy with the budding trees, we rolled down the windows, pointed our hands toward the sky, and began to flap our human wings up and down as we cruised through the forested avenue.  

Our laughter grew as we passed a dark-haired, scruffy, construction-type working man in his dilapidated truck going down the hill.  Both times that we grew wings and flew in our avion, our new friend passed us and immediately joined us in our imaginary flight.  The looks that passed from driver to driver were ones of amazement, joy, and friendship.

Fireworks:

I filled my white mug with coffee, grabbed the cream from the fridge, and poured the usual amount into the steamy brew.  The cream made its way to the bottom of the mug and on its return to the brim it scattered and danced in C, S, and curly-cue type patterns.  I giggled as I imagined my mug bursting with the glory of fireworks.

Thoughts:

Some inertly tantalizing sensation occurs when what was once just an ordinary movement becomes a beautiful flower, a carefree bird, or dazzling fireworks.  Be on the look out for ways nature sneaks into the mundane; take a risk to trust the pattern of something other than an ordinary human, let yourself imagine more beauty than what you see at first glance.

Each spring the earth is transformed; me too!

hula-hoops and a garage

A  sandy-haired 10 year-old stood on the steps of her townhome swaying her hips in an attempt to keep the pink and purple hula-hoop twirling and looping around her waist.  There was not a trace of defeat as she hunched her back and draped her arms to once again retrieve the hoop from the cement to place it around her waist.

Not too many yards away from her was a shaggy-haired, 5-o'clock shadow wearing man working beside his one-car garage.  He moved his handsaw back and forth diagonally along the birch bark branch.  After a closer look, it became apparent that the previous bird-perch, shadow provider, leaf grower would soon find its new occupation as the support to a hand-crafted tv remote perch, a coffee-mug rest, a magazine holder.

It was two years ago that a 11-year old girl laden with her purple backpack and swinging her lunch bag entered her townhome garage at 4:00 after a spring day of learning at her elementary school.  I am sure the day was filled with many of the usual activities: silent reading; microscope viewing; hopscotch jumping; and problem solving.  But her life changed instantly upon finding her mother dead, hanging from the garage beam. She arrived before her 9-year-old sister; she arrived to bear the news alone.

As I passed the townhomes on my run the other day, I was reminded of the beauty, simplicity, tragedy, and complexity of life.  Hula-hoops, hand-made crafts, suicide, and suffering all mix together and create what we call life.  I am moved to be thankful for the simple joys of this life and I am moved to pray fervently for the suffering of those who hunch their backs, drape their arms, and pick themselves up and move on in life while laden with the secrets and grief of tragedy and hardship.  

Songs and Spring--Iambic Pentameter

A song that speaks right through the soul can be

A song that can change someone's heart to see.

Sungeun K.

How her melody sings into my heart

Each note a memory of days gone by.

Anna C.

She walks along the street that winds and bends

For right now she is where she wants to be.

Yvonne M.

Judging

SUSAN BOYLE YOUTUBE LINK

Susan Boyle is a reminder to me that one must look much further than a hairstyle; a style of dress; a swagger; or even a background to know the true gifts of a person.  I hope I will allow myself to be amazed by someone today and tomorrow by waiting to hear his voice; by hoping to see her talent come to life; or by seeing the beauty where my human eye had previously failed to notice.

Blessings to you Miss Boyle.  My the world give back to you in abundance all that you so graciously gave to your mother; to your church; to your "willage"; and to the youtube watching world.

Peace by Natalie B.

Powerful images help to reveal the comfort of peace. Thank you, Natalie, for this beautiful poem.  You really emphasize the power of peace with your structure.  

Natalie B.
Peace


Withered and wasted
after these miles I have ambled,
Step after step
my feet
they do grow weary,
This sand
a scorching bed of coals
paves the path in all directions,
This sun
a raging fireball
hangs just above my head,
The time is soon approaching
when my body finds it hopeless
to continue on like this,
This heat will only grieve me
so I crumple in distress.

A
drop
of
water
hits
my
skin,
With many more to follow,
They come to bring me back to life
and wash my bloody feet,
Kind and soft
these beads they kiss my face,
Sweat and tears are gone
I am left with the purest rain.

Similes with a laugh

Would you like extra credit?  If so, submit your original metaphor or simile to me.  The funnier it is the more extra credit for you.

Hope you laugh...

from a Washington Post contest of funniest analogies from actual high school essays collected by English teachers across the country. 
 
1. Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two sides gently compressed by a ThighMaster.
 
2. His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.
 
3. He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it.
 
4. She grew on him like she was a colony of E. Coli, and he was room-temperature Canadian beef.
 
5. She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.
 
6. Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.
 
7. He was as tall as a six-foot, three-inch tree.
 
8. The revelation that his marriage of 30 years had disintegrated because of his wife's infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a formerly surcharge-free ATM machine.
 
9. The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't.
 
10. McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup.
 
11. From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you're on vacation in another city and Jeopardy comes on at 7:00 p.m. instead of 7:30.
 
12. Her hair glistened in the rain like a nose hair after a sneeze.
 
13. The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.
 
14. Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.
 
15. They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan's teeth.
 
16. John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.
 
17. He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant, and she was the East River.
 
18. Even in his last years, Granddad had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long it had rusted shut.
 
19. Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.
 
20. The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.
 
21. The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.
 
22. He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame, maybe from stepping on a land mine or something.
 
23. The ballerina rose gracefully en Pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.
 
24. It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with power tools.
 
25. He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.

Sometimes

This is day number two of watching a tenacious Robin outside my kitchen window grab, pull, yank dried leaves from the garden.  She gets a beak-full of about 10 strands before she flies away.  I haven't timed how long she is gone, but it seems only minutes before she returns and begins gathering her homemaking tools again.  

I just received sad news from a friend that her beloved 3-year-old golden doodle is sick with cancer.  They will have to make a hard decision soon.  And a student, Diane, just put down her 16 year-old dog.  She was two when they got her as a puppy.  

Two best friends eat lunch together every day in the library.  Everyday.  Today the order was two sandwiches and a coke; yesterday, it was one sandwich each and a bottle of water.  This ritual takes place everyday all year; I just noticed it yesterday.  

Tomorrow I leave to see my dearest friend in Seattle.  I get to board a plane and in 3 hours I am in a new place and different home.  I know it will be filled with laughter, reminiscing, long discussions, and a sad goodbye.

Sometimes we work hard to build our lives; sometimes what we have put our hope and our love into suddenly disappears; sometimes we get the blessing of spending every lunch hour with a dear friend; and sometimes we are lucky enough just to have a dear friend even if she is thousands of miles away.  Sometimes we miss what is right in front of us until we simply stop to take notice.  Spring beckons us to find the joy in what is new.

Peace by Gregory M. III

The 12th grade student-poet Gregory M. deserves an introduction (plus he begged me to say something about him!).  He commands attention by his sheer height and his carefully chosen raiments.  He is a beast on the basketball court and adamantly shows his passion for the game.  Give him a basketball and he owns the space, the room, the world!  Without any further ado, I present to you his poem on peace.  May you indeed receive the beautiful promises of Peace Greg presents in his poem and may her comforting presence  stay with you today, tomorrow, and always.  

Peace

She whispers in your ear

With no intentions of harm.

Her touch so very gentle,

As she caresses the side of your face.

Must she even say anything?

Or can she just sit with you gracefully?

Her movements bring joy

For people of all descents.

She comes from a perfect world,

Perfect.

Although we aren't accustomed to seeing her, 

The rare presence lightens everyone's face, 

Her skin is perfect with no sight of blemishes,

And her dress lies on her back so elegantly.

People strive to greet her,

Welcome

Her with open arms.

But then she vanishes,

Again.

Tag Galaxy

Tag Galaxy is Far Out!!  Click on this link to be amazed.  Enter "Poem" to read thousands of poems

Merely a Pebble by Megan S.

Merely a Pebble

A pebble.

Small,

Gray,

Round.

Just merely a pebble.

Routinely stepped on,

Walked over, 

Ignored,

Overlooked.

Eroded and worn down.

Merely the size of a penny, 

What could it possibly disturb?

Picked up and thrown into the pond by a small boy,

It becomes more than a pebble.

The fish turn their heads as an intruding object disrupts their atmosphere.

The waves from the rippling effect only slightly brush the sea plants back and forth.

A nearby fisherman scorns and furrows his brow as he searches for what has hindered his

potential catch,

His supper.

A child marvels at the way the insignificant stone leaps across the water, 

Bouncing with energy and life.

The pebble.

Merely a pebble.

Seen and felt yet overlooked by all.

Worn down and insignificant, 

Yet causing a 

Disturbance.

Walk On

Click on the picture of DJ Gregory to link to the ESPN video.

I will try not to complain; I will try not to be tired; and I will try to be thankful for each pain-free step I take.

Walk On can only inspire one to look toward a goal and to move toward it one careful step at a time even if one falls and struggles to get moving forward again.

Thanks, Dad, for the video!!

The Satrical Love of Poetry By Colin S.

Love of Poetry

Poetry is not entertaining.
It cannot be fun
Whenever I read it,
I look for a gun.
Its verbal rhymes assault me,
The meter beats me with pain.
Should it ever be uttered,
I’ll jump in front of a train.
Alas, I hear its fell syllables,
All hope is lost
Is there a nearby river of fire
That I might swim acrosst?
O lyrics so foul,
Running round in my head.
If nothing else
I wish I were dead.
Everything about it is wrong;
I’m sure it’s a sin.
Yet you fools walk ‘round
Reciting with grin.
Poetry takes my soul,
It drains my life.
Surely it fills the world
With nothing but strife.
It is the tool of the devil,
The 7th plague of hell.
How can you people tell me
It wishes me well?
Its task, it seems,
To fill us with knowledge.
Should I hear much more,
I’ll die before college.
The words consume me,
They drown me in flames
Dost thou not hear me?
I’m done with your games!
I don’t like poetry
Of this my teacher knows.
Can we please hurry up
And get back to prose?
~Colin Sabie, 12th grade

Are you smarter than an 8th grader??

My dad sent me the following link, and he is inquiring about what my students have to say about such a test. I am only giving you the English part of the exam. Could you pass 8th grade in 1895? My grandma only had an 8th grade education, and at the ripe old age of 97, she can still recite the two poems she memorized for her 8th grade graduation!

Would you be a better writer if you could answer the questions? How quickly could you access the answers on google? If you don't know the answers, do you think your teachers have let you down by not teaching this material? What have you been taught instead in your English classes?
8th Grade Final Exam: Salina , KS - 1895
Grammar (Time, one hour)
1. Give nine rules for the use of capital letters.
2. Name the parts of speech and define those that have no modifications.
3. Define verse, stanza and paragraph
4. What are the principal parts of a verb? Give principal parts of 'lie,''play,' and 'run.'
5. Define case; illustrate each case.
6 What is punctuation? Give rules for principal marks of punctuation.
7 - 10. Write a composition of about 150 words and show therein that you understand the practical use of the rules of grammar.

Period 4, 5, 6, 7 Podcasts-Presentation of Thesis

Period 6 podcast

 Period 4 Podcast

 Period 7 Podcast

5th period Coping Poems

Coping

The beautiful fall days
Remind me of the
pain
Where my heart is
alone
an awful sick feeling
in my stomach questions
my reason for existence
extinguishing
the joy of life
Routine and sleep
help me to cope
friends say they’re
here to help the
torturous
memories will never pass.

~Kristina H.

Coping

2 more months of tapping fingers
36 days of biting nails
123 classes of twirling pencils
147 hours of fidgeting
8790 minutes of daydreaming
527,400 seconds of doodling
then…
Summer

~Ryan S.

Coping

I listen to the Ticking
Ticking of the rhythm of songs that distract me from the Ticking
Ticking of the repetition of the day
Ticking of the time away
Ticking the minutes off
Ticking the hours off
Ticking days off
Ticking me of

~Brandon J.

Poem-AnnaMarie M.

Words
are just
letters.
Letters thrown together.
Yes, they supposedly
have meaning when they're combined.
Words like need, want, love
thrown around.
Some know
the real meaning
Others say I need you,
say I want you,
say I love you
without knowing the real meaning.
They're just words
for some,
3 words
mean the world
only for one...
3 words, 8 letters,
I love you.

~Senior English Student: AnnaMarie M.

Thinking

Well, I have been considering the value of thinking lately. My consideration is connected with our new poetry unit of which many students claim to hate---loathe---detest the idea of reading poetry. If I step outside of my cozy little English cocoon and consider the world at large, could I find ways of thinking or imagining that I detest? Let's see...if one were to ask me to make sense of a physics problem would I hate it? Or describe the significance of a Picasso painting? What about if I had to recite the conjugations of Latin verbs? I am not sure I can say I would hate any of those subjects, but I know I would find all three examples a challenge to my brain. I still am pretty fascinated by those who know how to study and appreciate physics, art, and Latin.

So, what makes poetry different? It is like putting a dog in front of a cat--ooh scary raising of the hair on the back. Or maybe it is more like telling a four-year-old he needs a nap---"No, I don't Mommy!" Or being told sit ups are good for you. C'mon, who needs this pain?

I'd like to connect poetry to thinking; sometimes poetry is hard and it asked for our imagine to be stirred; our analytical skills to be honed; or our ability to make connections to be ignited. It works the brain. We've been using words for how long-oh yeah, our entire lives, so looking at a few words on a page must be easy. Here comes the hair on back, no I won't take a nap and I'd rather have a flabby belly reaction because making meaning of the words on the page is not always easy. Poetry is NOT just words on a page; rather, it is speaker, voice, meter, images, language, structure, and words all working together to share an idea with the reader.

It is all a clever way to get someone to THINK! Just like all those crazy physics laws get us to think, so do the laws of poetry. My next few blogs will be posting of student's poetry---stay tuned for some thinking! I hear Colin Sabie wrote a great poem about...hating poetry! Sigh.

Then versus Than

Are Cats Better Then Dogs? - Free videos are just a click away

Is it better to think about it than write about it then?

Just a quick blog about the difference between then and than.  I am convinced this homonym lesson was stricken from the text books after 1985, so it is no fault of students that they do not know the word THAN exists.  For a few years now I have been noticing the complete and absolute lack of the use of THAN.  So here goes:

Then is a time

Than is a comparison

Finish your paper and then celebrate!  (When should I celebrate?  THEN!)  Then= Time

Is 11th grade English harder than 12th grade English?  (I don't know how to answer the question.  You tell me.)

Than=Comparing 11th to 12th

Need a good laugh?  Check out the video I attached.  Notice they incorrectly compare the dog to the cat.  It should read:  Is the cat better THAN the dog?  By the way: the DOG is way better THAN a cat!!

Be Amazed

What do you find amazing?  Send in your posting to share.  What needs to be solved?

One of my favorite shows as a little girl was the Flinstone's.  I loved Pebbles!  I wanted to babysit her.  I was convinced that if I could just crawl through the TV screen that I could play with her.  It never worked; it is a good thing I didn't smash the screen to get her out. (I thought about it.) 

I remember watching a few James Bond movies, 007.  The only part I remember from any of the movies is that he could talk on a phone in his car.  It was beyond belief that someone could talk on a phone outside of a kitchen!   I have a picture of me (a really bad photo-perm and all) sitting on the floor of our kitchen talking to my boyfriend.  Why was I on the floor of my kitchen?  Because the phone was connected to a cord and the cord could only reach to the middle of the kitchen.  There was no way to imagine that a phone could be so small; so ubiquitous; so universal.  But it has happened...and more.

Remember the chapel we had with David Batsone, Emily's uncle?  He encouraged us to be CURIOUS!  What are you curious about?  Imagine something amazing could come true in your lifetime and you could make it happen.    

Pay Attention

Lawrence Kushner advises us to remember how Moses paid attention to God. In the book God Was in This Place and I, I Did Not Know he writes: "When Moses [paid attention], God spoke. The trick is to pay attention to what is going on around you long enough to behold the miracle..." We move too fast; we don't pay attention. We are a Sesame Street one-minute-attention-span culture. If someone is not entertaining us, it might not be worth noticing him.

I was waiting in the parking lot of the high school this week and two senior girls were laughing and talking while running to their car. I was full of smiles watching them have so much fun. It was a time to pay attention and notice joy.

Freeze frame today-notice the bush around you; it might not be burning but God's voice just might be calling from within.

Dont Walk

This idea in this blog is brought to you by Kristina H. who noticed the lack of apostrophe in the don't walk sign which is actually written "dont walk." It begs the question: how does language create meaning? She made the astute observation that without the apostrophe the sign is really just meaningless letters. So why should we care about spelling and punctuation? Has there ever been a fatality when a person attempted to cross the road when the sign said "dont walk" but the person was so confused and headed right across a street with cars whizzing to and fro? Hopefully not!

As I am writing this, my student teacher is ensuring students know how to properly punctuation a letter written to a Sir or Madam. The lesson demonstrates a colon must follow the Sir or Madam for a formal letter. Would a person receiving a letter be put off if a measly little comma followed her name rather than a colon? Or does it matter if a student writes me an email and doesn't capitalize my name? I guess you probably know my answer: yes, it matters! Just as it shows more respect to have a firm handshake than a weak handshake, it shows respect to the recipient when care is taken to properly punctuate a letter/document.

Another perspective is to understand rules are made to help and to direct. Rules give our diverse population a simplified way to understand one another. So, I say, change the "dont walk" sign to a hand that shows stop. I also say, if you email a teacher, be sure to capitalize her name. And by the way, English is always capitalized. News to you??

It's Official-I am old

I learned to type on a typewriter. Therefore, I learned to place two spaces after a period. I just did it. I just did it again. I have been trained; I can't change. BUT you can.

Here is the MLA rule: ONE space after a period is all that is required; two is fine but not necessary.
If you would like to read more, I have created the above sentence as a link.

Yep, I'm old. I still remember my typewriter class in the basement of my school. It was so fun!

Ash Wednesday-a day to be open to light

Praise God for new beginnings. Our chapel was filled with ideas to help us journey with Christ toward the cross of forgiveness. Take off our masks. Peel back layers of images that have hidden our true selves. Let God's healing light come into our hearts. Be open to god. Surrender our spirits to God.

I pray that God's goodness, His graciousness, and His promise of joy fill will fill your heart. May you feel God take you by the hand and lead you on this today and all days to come.

A Whole Nother Butt Gusting Class Session

I misspoke the other day. When I wanted to say "Gut Busting" joke, I said "Butt Gusting"; it was pretty hilarious. In addition, this connected with the commonly used saying "whole nother." There was quite a bit of laughter as we discussed the definition of a whole nother novel: another novel, an other novel, or a whole another novel. It took a while for students to see that another novel is all that needs to be said. Anyway, it was a butt guster none-the-less. I do believe that laughter was the key for learning. I think students will readily remember the problem with "whole nother" because we all were laughing. This blog is dedicated to Matthew P.-he is definitely a whole nother funny guy!

The Thirty-Second Floor written by Erick F.

The Thirty-Second Floor

Run! Do you not hear that?
The crash the boom the roar of
Rubble falling to the floor,
22 people on the thirty-second
Floor but only two heard the monstrous
Roar outside the walls of the
Thirty-second floor-

Run! No time to waste danger
Lurks within these walls; we
Must descend to the ground
Where all is safe and nothing
Will break unlike the walls of the
Thirty-second floor-

Run! Leave those behind to
Meet their fate make no
Mistake the end is close for
Many but far for few
Who choose to make haste and
Escape their fate
Let them be irate about the
Claims you make-

Run! Out the door
On to the street do not
Turn back to watch the steel
Beast burst through the walls of the
Thirty-second floor
Do not be unsure about
Decisions you have made
But the decisions you must make
As you flee the cries of plea
Which were once irate but
Now cry desperately for
An escape from the walls of the
Thirty-second floor.

written by Erick Forson Junior
Based on family personal story

You say farther; I say further

Every since I watched the movie Finding Forester, I have tried to educate the world on the difference between FARther and Further. I did not recognize the difference between the two words. Now I know and I want you to know!

Notice in FARther the word FAR. Far, of course, is marking a distance. Therefore, farther is noting an item or a thing that is away, not close, or at a distance. If you want to go into more depth about an idea then you would discuss it further.

I hear it misused probably every day. Do you? Let's discuss it FURTHER!

Reflecting Myself

I keep hearing the pronoun "myself" being misused.  Just this morning, I heard a caller misuse it on Cities 97.  Let me make this easy.  In a mirror, I see my reflection:  I see MYSELF.  So, Myself is a REFLEXIVE Pronoun since it is a mirror to the eye (I).  Get the pun??  

It is therefore incorrect to say: "Sam, would you like to go to the game with Jack and myself?" 

It is correct to say: "I am so upset with myself for not studying for the test."  

Cliff's Notes

How come students use Cliff's Notes rather than read the text? Minnehaha has written in the student handbook that substituting the reading of a text with the reading guide is considered cheating. It certainly is reassuring to read someone else's thoughts about a text to know one has the right idea; however, the intrigue of reading is to read for one's self by discovering the place, the meaning, the character in one's own mind. Perhaps I am answering my own question. Maybe, if a student is choosing to read a reading guide, there is no instrinsic motivation for discovering the mystery, the beauty, the message individually. Or perhaps there simply is no time in a teenager's life to enjoy the craft of writing and the pleasure of reading.