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.