Sunday, July 9, 2017

Doing Better

The other day, I tweeted out a simple question:
“When’s the last time eduTwitter made you think?”

My motivation was simple: I was feeling dissatisfied by what I was seeing on my Twitter feed. Too much of the same. Not enough that challenged me and my practice. I hoped that my followers might have some thought-provoking posts to share with me.

I got a few responses: some bemoaning the “echo chamber” tendency of eduTwitter (the same ideas being amplified), some sharing posts from ISTE (many of which I had already seen), and some singing Twitter’s praises as a great way to connect with other educators (which I don’t deny is true).

When I wrote that tweet, I hadn’t quite figured out the source of my dissatisfaction. I knew that it irritated me when I saw posts that were solely motivated by gaining retweets or likes. I knew that seeing the same surface-level discussions about inclusion and relationships left me feeling disappointed. I also knew that I needed to do something about this feeling of ennui that surrounded me every time I clicked over to my Twitter feed.

But it wasn’t until Peter Anderson sent me a message recommending that I look at who I’m following on Twitter that I realized what my problem was: it was me.

I had created a Twitter feed that was woefully narrow. It was my fault. My feed was full of big names pushing books, teachers trying to build up a brand, and, frankly, it was really, really white.

It’s not hard to see how this happened. Like many teachers, when I joined Twitter, I saw those educators who had a huge following and felt compelled to add myself to their ranks. After all, lots of followers = the best ideas, right?

Wrong. eduTwitter is just another example of how privilege seeps its way into everything. Those with the biggest amount of privilege have the easiest time getting their ideas and voices amplified.  Smaller voices (often minorities) get buried, and when they do get recognition, it’s often just a carefully curated sidenote to a larger self-promoting message in order to appear “woke” or “inclusive.” It’s easy to tweet about social justice at your convenience when you’re operating under a massive amount of privilege.

Most teachers would say that they care about social justice and creating inclusive classrooms, and I’m no different. But one look at who I follow on Twitter would show you that I am guilty of the same mistake a lot of white educators (on and off Twitter) are making: surrounding myself with people just like me. How boring...and worse, how myopic and prohibitively exclusionary. In fact, this thread confirmed exactly what I was beginning to realize on my own: who I followed sent a pretty strong message about the importance I placed on diversity and social justice. Talk about a wake-up call.

I could have come to this realization, felt bad for awhile, and then carried on with my Twitter grumblings without making a change. After all, it’s easy to ignore things that deal with implicit bias when you’re privileged. I knew I had to do something. It’s one thing to complain about the state of things, but it’s another entirely to actually do something about it. Succinctly put, I needed to do the work.

Peter (God love him) helped me out by offering to make me a list of accounts that would broaden my Twitter horizons. He was kind enough to send me 30-odd names of people who challenge the status quo in education, tweet about social justice in education, and those whose worldview is different from my own.  Already, I’m reaping the benefits and am finding myself clicking the follow button on new accounts as I delve deeper into threads about privilege and the huge amount of work that needs to be done on the part of white teachers as allies for our students and our fellow colleagues of color. And far too often, white educators think we are doing enough. We aren’t.

Changing who I follow may seem like a frivolous step, but I view it as indicative of a larger shift I’m in the process of making. It’s not enough to only do this, but it’s a start. As I’ve had to remind myself over and over again, teaching is a journey that’s fraught with self reflection and having to take a hard look at yourself sometimes (and, in this case, looking closely at things as seemingly innocuous as your Twitter feed). This is one of those times. As Marian Dingle said in her recent blog post, I must do better. Here’s to doing better.

Tuesday, May 16, 2017

Turtle Hunting Weather #sol17

My memories do not smack me upside the head, dragging me down into a forced sort of reverie that cartoons and movies portray with their watery flashbacks and fuzzy recollection scenes. Instead, my memories trickle like a slowly leaking faucet, filling in bit by bit until my mind is awash with what used to be.

My slow spiral into a memory happened on Sunday.

Bits of sunlight streamed through the low-hanging trees, creating a kaleidoscope of light playing across the path ahead of me. As I walked along the wooded path with my husband, I felt a sense of familiarity overwhelm me. It was in the soft breeze. It was in the saturated greens of the surrounding foliage. It was threaded throughout the loud silence of the surrounding forest, teeming with bird calls.

And just like that, the last drop fell, and I remembered. There was no mistaking it. This was turtle hunting weather.

I remembered a coupon book, presented to me by my dad for my birthdays when I was younger. There was always one that simply read "Turtle Hunting With Dad," redeemable whenever the time was right for a traipse through the woods to search for the box turtles that were on the move during the Missouri springtime.

On hunting days, we'd step over the electric fence that kept our three cows from wandering down the road, my dad easily clearing the wire with his long legs. I was more cautious, having experienced the wrath of accidental contact (it felt exactly like a cow kicking you in the stomach, in case you were wondering).  As we headed towards the tree line, we'd avoid the cow patties that were scattered about like obvious landmines.

Once we were in the forest, I'd kick the decaying leaves as I scanned the ground in front of me, hoping to see a tiny head poking up or hear the scrabble of a turtle's clawed feet against the disintegrating foliage. My dad would do the same, checking near fallen logs and next to trees.

Lucy, our black Labrador, followed along, nose to the ground, intent on sniffing out the stealthy shelled creatures. At times, she would disappear, and my dad would remark, "Looks like she's on to something." She'd show back up a few minutes later, a closed turtle shell held delicately in her mouth. We had to coerce her to give up her prize, but in the end, the lure of finding more turtles was greater than holding on to the one she presently had.

Each time we found a turtle, I held it in my hands. Depending on the turtle, I either stared at a firmly shut shell, or into the tentative but curious eyes of its occupant. Sometimes, a particularly brave turtle would stick his head out and begin to pedal his legs, asking to be released. After all, he was on a mission (turtles travel to mate), and I was a particularly annoying roadblock. We never kept the turtles. Who were we to stand in the way of true love?

Before we released each turtle we found, we marked them. My dad always brought a permanent marker with him, and I would write my initials (KNM) and the date across the shell before setting the turtle down gently and continuing the search.

"If we find the same turtle next year, we'll know," my dad always said.

We never found the same turtles. That's not what mattered.

My memories may begin slowly, but they always end abruptly, truncated by reality. Without preamble, I was back in the present, walking down a forested trail with my husband. No turtles in sight. The days of turtle hunting coupons were long gone. I sighed.

"It would make me so happy if I saw a turtle today." Scott squeezed my hand, wordlessly understanding.

We turned the corner. Up ahead, something was on the trail. Due to the distance, it looked like a brown blob--could be a pile of leaves, a clump of mud-- but I couldn't help it. My heart fluttered. I dropped my husband's hand and ran forward.

Two amber eyes peered from behind a swiftly shuttered shell. A smile spread across my face. I shouldn't have doubted. It was, after all, turtle hunting weather.

Tuesday, May 9, 2017

I Think I Want a Kid #sol17

Sunday morning, I found myself face to face with approximately 50 hungry kids, armed with only two tiny bottles barely filled with milk.

This isn't going to be enough, I thought to myself, looking at the melee of hungry toddlers that swarmed around the area, searching for a bottle to latch on to. The kids were needy. Pushy. Whiny. But boy, were they cute. Even when they bumped against my shins with their heads in a not-so-subtle request for some milky goodness. All uncouth behavior aside, the sight of these kids stirred something inside me that I had never felt before: a longing to have one of my own.

I imagined myself, sitting in a sun-dappled room, holding my kid in my arms. I'd rock back and forth gently and hum a maternal tune as he slurped eagerly from a bottle, looking at me adoringly with big brown eyes. Sure, there'd be the whining and the use of brute force to get my attention, but underneath every head butt would be a subtle showing of love. In my mind, I could already hear my kid's first words: "maaa maaa."

Something warm brushed up against my legs, breaking me out of my reverie. I looked down. Two sets of hunger-addled eyes stared up at me. I have a job to do, I reminded myself, brandishing my bottles like a woman ready to head into some sort of milk-centric battle.

I stooped down. Instantly, I was surrounded. One kid clambered into my lap, while another circled around me, searching for an opening. I expertly inserted a bottle into each waiting mouth, tilting them upright for maximum milk flow. Must be my maternal instinct, I thought to myself. My smooth moves were rewarded by smacking lips, rounded bellies and slow blinks of pleasure. I'm a natural, I thought proudly.

As the bottles quickly emptied, I looked up at my husband.

"I think I want a kid."

He rolled his eyes at me, taking in the scene in front of him with a bemused smile on his face.

"Katie, we are not getting a baby goat."

Thursday, April 27, 2017

My Writing Workshop Uniform

On days when I know I’ll be heading to the tiny studio where I take barre classes, I take time in the morning to gather up the equipment I need to be successful during the hour I spend sweating, stretching and trying to get my heels up a little higher in relevĂ©. My “barre uniform” consists of yoga pants, a loose tank top, a headband for my hair, grippy socks for balance, and flipflops to wear when I leave the studio. Each item has a purpose, and my barre classes wouldn’t be nearly as successful if I didn’t come prepared for the occasion.

Getting ready for a class of writing workshop requires a similar approach. No, I don’t have a certain outfit that I wear on workshop days (I do have an apron...more on that in a minute…), but over the four years I’ve used this approach to writing, I have developed a sort of “workshop uniform,” or a list of tools that I keep near me or on me when I am circulating the room and meeting with writers.

Like most things in life, figuring out what tools to use has involved a lot of trial and error, and I’m certainly still in the process of refining my workshop uniform. Here’s what’s working for me and my students right now:

What’s In My Apron
Yes, I have a teacher apron. Yes, I know that makes me look extremely dorky, but it holds the tools I find essential:

  • Teacher aprons look much more
    acceptable when there are two
    of you wearing them.
    Post-It Notes: I know this probably isn’t news to anyone who has ever run a writing workshop, but Post-It notes are supremely handy to have nearby. I’m always finding new uses for them. Smaller ones can be used to create visuals to leave with students (I often used them to show a boxes and bullets structure during our argumentative writing unit), or they can help capture an idea to save for later. I like to give larger Post-It notes to writers who are in the process of revising and expanding: they can layer the large sticky note over the original writing and easily flip it up to see their progress from one draft to their next. Another use is for writers who are working on volume. They can start by filling a small Post-It note with writing and eventually graduating to the next size up as they increase their stamina and volume. The possibilities are endless!
  • Tiny Anchor Charts: I like to make a few miniature-sized copies of charts that we created during the mini lesson to hand out to writers as the need arises. Though we hang the larger anchor charts around the room, there’s something about having a personal tool to offer to a writer that feels more intentional to me than simply pointing at the anchor chart. Having these available makes conferring run more smoothly for me: I simply pull out the chart, use it while conferring with the writer, and leave it behind for the writer to use. The writer can tape their own personal anchor chart in their journal to reference at any time--I have a giant tub of washi tape in our writing makerspace exactly for this purpose.
  • If/Then Keyring: Our wonderful curriculum coordinator, Julie Paur, took the Lucy Calkins Units of Study If/Then scenarios and turned them into a handy-dandy keyring. It’s a cinch to throw these in my apron and use them to confer on the fly. Each card on the ring has the “If/Then” scenario, which presents an issue a writer might encounter, how to support that writer, and what to leave the writer with (questions to ask or a tool that could be created by using the aforementioned Post-It notes). I love to look at these when planning conferences, and I feel much more confident when sidling up to a writer when I know I have this tool (literally!) in my pocket.

What’s In My Hands
Each day is different, but when I am conferring with writers, I always have something in my hands:

  • Conference Clipboard: My biggest challenge is keeping a good record of which writers I’ve met with during workshop. I’ve tried approximately 8 zillion approaches: using Evernote to type up thoughts (felt disconnected from the conference), creating a binder with a separate page for each writer (too bulky), carrying around a stack of my beloved Post-Its to jot notes that are later organized in a binder (lost ‘em). After reading this post by Lanny Ball, I realized I had been overcomplicating things: all I needed was a simple table with a box for notes on each writer. Lanny’s template allows me to quickly check to see who I’ve talked to (and the teaching point I made during our last meeting), who I need to check back in with, and who I haven’t talked to at all. This portable and practical solution makes tracking conferences much easier for me. Sometimes, the simple approaches are the best.

  • My Own Writing: I write with my students. If they’re writing, I am too. I like carrying my journal with me when conferring because, sometimes, showing my own writing and how I dealt with a particular issue is the best way to approach a teaching point. If a writer is, for example, having a hard time elaborating with description, it’s easy for me to flip to a particular paragraph of my own piece that needs more description and workshop it right there in front of the writer. Show not tell, right? Carrying my own writing around also makes the teaching points I do make more authentic: what I recommend carries more weight, since I’m doing the same writing I ask of my students.
  • Demonstration Notebook: After reading DIY Literacy by Kate and Maggie Beattie Roberts, I started a demonstration notebook that I could use for one-on-one conferences or small-group instruction. My demonstration pages usually identify the tip or strategy, how to use it, and include an opportunity for the writer to try it out themselves. I try to think ahead with what tips and techniques would benefit the writers in the room and create these demonstration pages before class starts. During workshop, I can easily use my demonstration notebook to conduct a quick conference. This requires some forward thinking (it isn’t as easy to create these on the fly), but this year, I’ve found myself reaching for my demonstration notebook because it goes a step further than just leaving the writer with a tip to actually has them try it out!

My writing workshop uniform is in a constant state of flux as I read more and learn more about the insanely complex nature of the teaching of writing. Conferencing is not easy. Much like getting ready for a tough workout class, getting ready to dive into a full day of writing workshop requires preparation and commitment. Having the right tools at my disposal helps me focus on what’s really important: helping my students grow as writers.

Tuesday, April 11, 2017

Slice of Life Tuesday: A Very Writerly Party #sol17

My room was packed. Some faces familiar. Some were not. All were united by the simple fact that every single one of them was a writer.

My colleague, Liz, and I had forty kids undertake the Slice of Life Challenge with us this year. Some were 31 Slicers who wrote every single day in March. Some were 17 Slicers, who wrote every school day.  Numbers aside, we all were celebrating the cultivation of a writing habit--no small feat.

In our opinion, no Slice of Life Party would be complete without some literal slices, so we went with a sweet slice (a suitably springy sheet cake from Costco, adorned with yellow, purple and pink flowers) and a savory slice (Papa John's pizza). As the writers munched, they searched through their plethora of written slices, searching for one to share.

One by one, the edible slices disappeared. Their absence was replaced with something equally delicious: good writing. The room filled with the pitch-perfect adjectives, humorous one-liners and emotional topics of the various voices in the room. Each writer was unique, each piece like a fingerprint that left its own individual mark on me. I listened with a huge grin on my face. I couldn't help it; moments like these are why I do what I do.

Our time together was all too short. We gathered together for a quick picture, and then, the writers were off, spiraling away like balloons released into the air. Their words lingered though. They hovered over the room like a fine mist, shimmering with their beauty and power.

I hope that, tomorrow, I will be able to look past the hectic testing schedules and frenetic pace of a middle school in April and see the shadow of those words. I hope I will remember the quiet power of writers bravely sharing their words.

Tuesday, April 4, 2017

Slice of Life Tuesday: The Teacher With the Dragon Tattoo

There was a rumor going around about me at school.

Like all good rumors, it struck the perfect balance of being just believable enough to gain some traction while still keeping its National Inquirer shock-level status.

There was a rumor going around about me at school...that I had a tattoo of a dragon on my belly. And Mrs. Porter, the math teacher on my team, had started it.

It began casually enough. "Hey, while you were gone on Friday, I maaay have told a few of the girls that you have a tattoo."

I looked at Mrs. Porter. "Well, I do have a tattoo." And I do. A tiny one, on my hip. Barely big enough to bear mention.

She laughed. "Yeah, well, I told them you have a giant tattoo of a dragon on your stomach. Like a huge one. I said that the tail wraps around your belly button. They were skeptical at first, but by the end, I think they were actually starting to believe me."

I grinned. "I like it. I am now The Teacher With the Dragon Tattoo."

Like all good rumors, it persisted, bouncing around like a superball thrown full force in an empty room.

Maybe it was because it's April. Maybe it was because I was bored. Or maybe I rather liked the idea that students thought that their English teacher with a penchant for floral dresses and bright lipstick secretly had a big-ass tattoo of a dragon winding up half of her torso. Whatever the reason, I decided to fan the flames of the rumor that I had a flame-breathing creature hidden under my shirt.

So today, at lunch, I sauntered casually into Mrs. Porter's room, noting that the three girls who were the original recipients of the Dragon Tattoo Rumor were all sitting within earshot. I leaned over, engaging in a casual conversation with Mrs. Porter. She turned to me.

"Did you know that you're supposed to have a midlife crisis every 29 years? I learned it from Donna on Parks and Rec. Something about Saturn's journey around the sun being 29 years long."

I thought for a moment, pondering. "Hmm. Well, I'm turning 29 in a month. Wonder what my midlife crisis should be..."

I made a show of thinking deeply about this thought-provoking question. "Ooh! I know! I should add on to my dragon tattoo," I said, just loud enough so that The Rumor Mill Trio could hear.

Slam. The sound of palms hitting the desk. "WHAT did you just say?!" Victoria, one of the three girls, twisted around in her seat in a move that would make a chiropractor wince, sheer shock painting her freckled features.

"I...I said I was going to add on to my tattoo?" I said, trailing off and doing my best to look supremely confused.

"SAY IT AGAIN!" she demanded, getting the attention of her two friends.

"My tattoo? I have a tattoo on my stomach." I sighed. "It was a stupid college decision, but yeah, I have a tattoo of a dragon. It's kinda big." I gestured to my stomach, my hands stretching to accommodate the size of my imaginary ink.

Three mouths formed perfect Os.

"Oh my God." 
"We didn't believe her!"


There was a rumor going around about me at school. And I intend to keep it going.

Friday, March 31, 2017

31/31: Target Touching #sol17

Thanks to the Two Writing Teachers blog for hosting the #sol17 writing challenge!
This afternoon, over a giant burrito bowl from Qdoba, I told my husband that I needed to go to Target "just to touch things." 

I know that sounds really weird. But this week has been stressful. And sometimes, I like to wander the aisles of Target and browse. I don't actually buy anything. I just look, pick something interesting up, and put it back. It's oddly soothing. 

I think Scott ultimately agreed to let me go Target Touching because he saw my eye twitching as I shoved forkfuls of chicken and black beans into my mouth. He knew it was in his best interests.

So we went to The Land of the Red Bullseye (pretty sure that, according to their business model, the bullseye is my credit card). We started in the Dollar Spot (or, as I like to call it, the Steal Your Dollar Spot). I picked up a pair of socks with a cross-eyed bunny on it. Scott handed me a fuzzy headband with bunny ears, which I immediately donned. As we laughed, I felt a thread loosen in the snarled yarn ball of stress that I was carrying in between my shoulder blades.

We moved on to the clothing section. I touched some very soft pajama pants. Scott found some swim trunks that were covered, inexplicably, with cats.  We debated the pros and cons of him wearing them in public (there weren't many pros), and just the thought of him showing off his cat-clad legs at the swimming pool was enough to unravel a little more of my balled-up anxiety. 

We strolled over to the Easter section, hand in hand, and engaged in a rousing debate about which Easter basket best suited each of us. Scott picked a fuzzy bunny basket for me, and I handed him a basket in the shape of a Despicable Me minion. We analyzed the different types of Cadbury eggs and the relative merits of each (original is perfection, in my opinion, but he feels that caramel has its place). Scott plied me with many fuzzy stuffed bunnies, chicks and lambs because he knows I adore stuffed animals and soft things. I hugged each in turn. He was starting to see the power of Target Touching.  

As we made a left to head back towards the front of the store, I leaned into my husband and rested my head on his shoulder. This movement was much easier than it would have been a mere hour ago, because the Target Touching had worked. The ball of stress that had been wedged between my shoulders had been reduced to an inconsequential pile of untangled strands. 

But it wasn't just the act of window shopping that had helped me feel a little more balanced. Target Touching is way better when you have a partner. And lucky for me, I happen to be married to a guy who is totally okay with indulging my weird yet fun attempts at relieving stress.