A Haiku to the Cat
entitled:
Floyd
Warm cat on my lap
Little piece of paradise
Purring, snoring, soft.
Sunday, December 23, 2012
Thursday, July 12, 2012
A Wicked Treat for Theater-Goers
What a special show we got to see last night, the very popular Wicked on stage at the San Diego Civic Theater (Wicked - Broadway San Diego.) It was clear from the packed house on a Wednesday night, and from the excited cheering as soon as the house lights dimmed and the music began, that the crowd was anticipating a wonderful experience. But what we got was even better than that - we got a once in a lifetime performance from two very talented, and obviously spontaneous, young women.
The premise of the show, as you may know, is the backstory of the Wicked Witch of the West, Elphaba, and Glinda, the Good Witch, from the Wizard of Oz. It is largely a story of friendship, when two complete opposites are forced to room together at boarding school and form an unlikely bond that lasts through the saga of Oz’s changing political and social climate, ending where the story of Dorothy’s journey begins.
In the first act, there is a scene between the two girls as they begin to let their walls down and trust each other. Galinda, the golden-haired, shallow, and popular girl, offers to give a makeover to Elphaba, who is a green-skinned, strong-willed social outcast. Alli Mauzey, the actress playing the ever-bubbly Galinda, discovered a rip in her pink ruffled skirt mid-scene and added a line to cover it up as she tucked the hanging fabric back in. She blithely hopped onto Elphaba’s bed, tucked up her feet, and repeated the original line as her castmate’s cue. As the scene progressed, the stray cloth escaped, and this time, Mauzy embraced it. True to her character’s obsession with fashion, she dubbed it “a new trend,” giggled, and twirled it around. Skipping back to Elphaba’s side, she dove back into the scene, only to be distracted by the trailing fabric again. Improvising, she tied it into a knot, took a satisfied look at it, and proceeded to do a series of goofy, self-congratulatory dance moves, a la Saturday Night Live’s Mary Katherine Gallagher: air punches, a high kick, several hop-hop-hops, and jazz hands in the air. All of this accompanied by Galinda’s high-pitched giggles and coos, and the hair flip for which her character is known. The audience ate it up, laughing harder with each self-absorbed display, while Nicole Parker, the more stoic Elphaba, observed with a tolerant but confused look. When Mauzy finally returned to the written dialogue, she added a quip, “I love me!” before saying, possibly to herself or maybe the audience, “Now focus!” It only cracked up the observers more. Parker took her cue unfazed, now wearing her hair down and a pink flower behind her ear, and stood up for Galinda to assess her “frock.” But instead of sticking to original blocking, she grabbed her skirt, scrunched it into a knot, stood to swing her hair left and right in imitation of Galinda, and even added three air punches and jazz hands.
The audience went wild.
Either these actresses are as good at improv as they are at learning lines and blocking, or they have become one with their characters so that ad libbing comes naturally, or perhaps they just have a lot of fun doing what they do on stage every night. It doesn’t matter, because it all worked, so well in fact that I believed their budding friendship even more as a result of the spontaneous display of Galinda’s self-absorbed goofiness and Elphaba’s sarcastic reaction. I suspect, though, that all three of my theories is true - they are fantastic actresses, they know their characters intimately, and they clearly enjoy what they do.
That scene could never have been written so brilliantly, and it will never be repeated in quite that way.
What a treat to witness it last night.
The premise of the show, as you may know, is the backstory of the Wicked Witch of the West, Elphaba, and Glinda, the Good Witch, from the Wizard of Oz. It is largely a story of friendship, when two complete opposites are forced to room together at boarding school and form an unlikely bond that lasts through the saga of Oz’s changing political and social climate, ending where the story of Dorothy’s journey begins.
In the first act, there is a scene between the two girls as they begin to let their walls down and trust each other. Galinda, the golden-haired, shallow, and popular girl, offers to give a makeover to Elphaba, who is a green-skinned, strong-willed social outcast. Alli Mauzey, the actress playing the ever-bubbly Galinda, discovered a rip in her pink ruffled skirt mid-scene and added a line to cover it up as she tucked the hanging fabric back in. She blithely hopped onto Elphaba’s bed, tucked up her feet, and repeated the original line as her castmate’s cue. As the scene progressed, the stray cloth escaped, and this time, Mauzy embraced it. True to her character’s obsession with fashion, she dubbed it “a new trend,” giggled, and twirled it around. Skipping back to Elphaba’s side, she dove back into the scene, only to be distracted by the trailing fabric again. Improvising, she tied it into a knot, took a satisfied look at it, and proceeded to do a series of goofy, self-congratulatory dance moves, a la Saturday Night Live’s Mary Katherine Gallagher: air punches, a high kick, several hop-hop-hops, and jazz hands in the air. All of this accompanied by Galinda’s high-pitched giggles and coos, and the hair flip for which her character is known. The audience ate it up, laughing harder with each self-absorbed display, while Nicole Parker, the more stoic Elphaba, observed with a tolerant but confused look. When Mauzy finally returned to the written dialogue, she added a quip, “I love me!” before saying, possibly to herself or maybe the audience, “Now focus!” It only cracked up the observers more. Parker took her cue unfazed, now wearing her hair down and a pink flower behind her ear, and stood up for Galinda to assess her “frock.” But instead of sticking to original blocking, she grabbed her skirt, scrunched it into a knot, stood to swing her hair left and right in imitation of Galinda, and even added three air punches and jazz hands.
The audience went wild.
Either these actresses are as good at improv as they are at learning lines and blocking, or they have become one with their characters so that ad libbing comes naturally, or perhaps they just have a lot of fun doing what they do on stage every night. It doesn’t matter, because it all worked, so well in fact that I believed their budding friendship even more as a result of the spontaneous display of Galinda’s self-absorbed goofiness and Elphaba’s sarcastic reaction. I suspect, though, that all three of my theories is true - they are fantastic actresses, they know their characters intimately, and they clearly enjoy what they do.
That scene could never have been written so brilliantly, and it will never be repeated in quite that way.
What a treat to witness it last night.
Monday, May 7, 2012
Spring cleaning leads to a sentimental journey
You can tell a lot about a person by the books she keeps on her shelf. In fact, the dusty volumes forgotten on the bottom shelves, or crammed behind the more recent reads, tell a story of hopes and hobbies, interests and itineraries, and trace the development of her academic history. Cleaning my six-foot-tall bookshelf today was a dust-bunny-escorted walk down memory lane.
The bottom shelf revealed my love of the creative arts. Scripts, song books, even class notes from college stood next binders full of choral sheet music, Sunset magazine gardening books, and flower arranging ideas. Dusting off the song books, I remembered the intense concentration I used to give to learning my favorite Broadway musicals word for word and note for note. The collections of sheet music from my concert choir days seemed timeless, in contrast to the binder of clippings with ideas for flower arranging - a fledgling attempt at creating a portfolio to launch a creative side business when I was unfulfilled in my day job. Now, not only have I supplied floral arrangements for several weddings and built a photo portfolio to prove it, but I have more need for creativity in my job and in my life than I have energy to fulfill!
There were rows upon rows of the classics: Homer's Odyssey, Shakespeare, Chaucer, Camus, Kafka, Poe, and just to cover it all, the multi-volume Norton's Anthology of English Literature, Selected Works of Mark Twain, a compilation of Charlotte and Emily Bronte, and The Hemingway Reader. There were the requisite college lit course readings that became beloved to me as they opened my eyes to new viewpoints and literary styles. In front of those sat the modern, popular fiction, more recently collected and read. The Poisonwood Bible, Cold Mountain, The Reader, Kite Runner - mostly half-read and relegated to the shelf with good intentions for another time. Amy Tan, Margaret Atwood, Jane Austen, Kate Chopin, Clarissa Pinkola Estes, and Isabel Allende spread their feminine, and feminist, influence amongst Hunter S. Thompson, Henry Miller, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Steinbeck, Crane, and Salinger. African Literature mingled its colorful tales with the heat of the Latin magical realists like Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Poetry and drama were sprinkled in a healthy dose, too - T.S. Elliot, Shakespeare's sonnets, Harold Pinter, Tom Stoppard, Caryl Churchill. A virtual syllabus of my college reading list. Only the treasured tomes have been preserved this long, getting moved from dorm to apartment to house, and maintaining precious real estate on an ever more crowded perch.
The books that didn't make it back onto that property after a good dusting also tell a tale. The user's manual for screenwriting software that fed my dreams just after college, a resume writing guide printed in 1994, travel books from the late 1990s, and more pretentious books on wine than I care to admit - these all surrendered their space on the shelves today.
The reference shelf took top billing, where I can easily see the dictionary, Bible, Hoyle's Book of Games, or Roberts Rules of Order if and when I ever need them.
A few precious childhood stories hide down low, behind the more respectable books. But three versions of Peter Pan as well as both the French and English translations of The Little Prince sit proudly up high. And the tallest book on the shelf had to be put back up high, on the only shelf where it fits - The Lonely Doll, the controversial but poignantly lovely photo-storybook of the little messy-haired doll and her teddy bear friends.
Six feet tall, made of wood, standing like a Buckingham Palace guard between my closet and a window, the unassuming bookshelf holds a history of my life. It may not be seen by many eyes other than mine, but now that I've skimmed the contents page again, it reminds me every time I glance at it of stories I've loved, places I've been, what I've learned, and the ideas that make me who I am.
The bottom shelf revealed my love of the creative arts. Scripts, song books, even class notes from college stood next binders full of choral sheet music, Sunset magazine gardening books, and flower arranging ideas. Dusting off the song books, I remembered the intense concentration I used to give to learning my favorite Broadway musicals word for word and note for note. The collections of sheet music from my concert choir days seemed timeless, in contrast to the binder of clippings with ideas for flower arranging - a fledgling attempt at creating a portfolio to launch a creative side business when I was unfulfilled in my day job. Now, not only have I supplied floral arrangements for several weddings and built a photo portfolio to prove it, but I have more need for creativity in my job and in my life than I have energy to fulfill!
There were rows upon rows of the classics: Homer's Odyssey, Shakespeare, Chaucer, Camus, Kafka, Poe, and just to cover it all, the multi-volume Norton's Anthology of English Literature, Selected Works of Mark Twain, a compilation of Charlotte and Emily Bronte, and The Hemingway Reader. There were the requisite college lit course readings that became beloved to me as they opened my eyes to new viewpoints and literary styles. In front of those sat the modern, popular fiction, more recently collected and read. The Poisonwood Bible, Cold Mountain, The Reader, Kite Runner - mostly half-read and relegated to the shelf with good intentions for another time. Amy Tan, Margaret Atwood, Jane Austen, Kate Chopin, Clarissa Pinkola Estes, and Isabel Allende spread their feminine, and feminist, influence amongst Hunter S. Thompson, Henry Miller, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Steinbeck, Crane, and Salinger. African Literature mingled its colorful tales with the heat of the Latin magical realists like Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Poetry and drama were sprinkled in a healthy dose, too - T.S. Elliot, Shakespeare's sonnets, Harold Pinter, Tom Stoppard, Caryl Churchill. A virtual syllabus of my college reading list. Only the treasured tomes have been preserved this long, getting moved from dorm to apartment to house, and maintaining precious real estate on an ever more crowded perch.
The books that didn't make it back onto that property after a good dusting also tell a tale. The user's manual for screenwriting software that fed my dreams just after college, a resume writing guide printed in 1994, travel books from the late 1990s, and more pretentious books on wine than I care to admit - these all surrendered their space on the shelves today.
The reference shelf took top billing, where I can easily see the dictionary, Bible, Hoyle's Book of Games, or Roberts Rules of Order if and when I ever need them.
A few precious childhood stories hide down low, behind the more respectable books. But three versions of Peter Pan as well as both the French and English translations of The Little Prince sit proudly up high. And the tallest book on the shelf had to be put back up high, on the only shelf where it fits - The Lonely Doll, the controversial but poignantly lovely photo-storybook of the little messy-haired doll and her teddy bear friends.
Six feet tall, made of wood, standing like a Buckingham Palace guard between my closet and a window, the unassuming bookshelf holds a history of my life. It may not be seen by many eyes other than mine, but now that I've skimmed the contents page again, it reminds me every time I glance at it of stories I've loved, places I've been, what I've learned, and the ideas that make me who I am.
Monday, April 2, 2012
May the Messenger Run Free, in Peace - Viva, Caballo Blanco
I am by no means an extreme athlete. In fact, I'm quite the opposite. I love yoga because it moves slowly and gently, and I can fool myself into thinking it is easy. I can convince myself to take a run-walk when the whether is nice, but the slightest chill or heat gives me a ready excuse to skip the outdoor workout and head for the temperature-controlled gym. So when I read the book Born to Run by Christopher McDougall, the ultra-marathoners and extreme runners described were unlikely heroes for me. Many of the crazy characters that McDougall describes in this non-fiction chronicle seem foreign to me, either because they truly are (as in the reclusive members of an ancient Aztec tribe) or because I just can't relate to them (as with the hard-partying college kids who drink all night and still run fifty miles across the desert the next day). The one character who seemed to me to be the most real, despite being the most mysterious and elusive, was Caballo Blanco.
The legendary white runner from Colorado is at the center of McDougall's account of the Tarahumara tribe and the Americans who seek their secrets. It is this mysterious gringo who bridges the distance between the hidden tribe and the writer, literally in miles and in cultural understanding. Despite the difficulty that McDougall has in tracking him down, and the challenges inherent in staying in touch when one party spends most of his time running and living in the Copper Canyons of Mexico far from telephones, Internet, or even postal mail, Caballo becomes McDougall's guide in introducing him to the native runners and cofounding the Copper Canyon Ultramarathon.
McDougall reveals to readers the surprising history of this enigma as though peeling off layers of onion skin. By the end, the man who has been called Caballo Blanco, the Cowboy Gypsy, Micah True, and Mike Hickman is perhaps more of a mystery than when he was simply a flash of pale skin and wild hair running by on the trail. And yet, he is more authentic than anyone else in the book. His philosophies on life and running are simple. His joy in running is infectious. His material needs are few - and usually supplied by the generosity of strangers and ready friends. He is as generous with his gifts as others are to him. It is as though he has stripped himself bare of all the hangups, crutches, and excuses we pile on ourselves and has returned to a more primitive, organic form of humanity. There is no pretense with this "gringo Indio" - and while I can't relate to that either, I can crave it, and admire it, and feel somehow better that at least there is someone out there in the world who has cast off his modern, materialistic fetters and found his true self.
At least there was.
Micah True, the name by which he was most recently officially known, left this world sometime between last Wednesday and Saturday when he did not return home from a 12-mile run in New Mexico. His body was found in the wilderness, and the cause of his death is yet unknown. But perhaps we already do know - he predicted it himself, to McDougall, when he said, "When I get too old to work, I'll do what Geronimo would've if they'd left him alone... I'll walk off into the deep canyons and find a quiet place to lie down" (Born to Run 281).
I was touched by this man's integrity, his commitment to his life style, to be poor and free, to be true and loving. And I only know him from reading one book. Imagine the impression he made on the many people who knew him well, and those who were fortunate enough to run with him, or meet him in his element.
He gave a pep talk to the motley group that assembled for the first ever Copper Canyon Run in Urique, Mexico, and told them that, "Americans are supposed to be greedy and selfish, but then I see you acting with good a heart. Acting out of love, doing good things for no reason" (Born to Run 255). And he encouraged this craziness, calling them Mas Locos, making it into an affectionate nickname, as he did with all of his friends.
I sure hope that his crazy influence will flourish even after his death, and that his message of "truth, beauty, love, hope, and peace" will live on in his legacy.
Viva, Caballo. Run free in peace.
The legendary white runner from Colorado is at the center of McDougall's account of the Tarahumara tribe and the Americans who seek their secrets. It is this mysterious gringo who bridges the distance between the hidden tribe and the writer, literally in miles and in cultural understanding. Despite the difficulty that McDougall has in tracking him down, and the challenges inherent in staying in touch when one party spends most of his time running and living in the Copper Canyons of Mexico far from telephones, Internet, or even postal mail, Caballo becomes McDougall's guide in introducing him to the native runners and cofounding the Copper Canyon Ultramarathon.
McDougall reveals to readers the surprising history of this enigma as though peeling off layers of onion skin. By the end, the man who has been called Caballo Blanco, the Cowboy Gypsy, Micah True, and Mike Hickman is perhaps more of a mystery than when he was simply a flash of pale skin and wild hair running by on the trail. And yet, he is more authentic than anyone else in the book. His philosophies on life and running are simple. His joy in running is infectious. His material needs are few - and usually supplied by the generosity of strangers and ready friends. He is as generous with his gifts as others are to him. It is as though he has stripped himself bare of all the hangups, crutches, and excuses we pile on ourselves and has returned to a more primitive, organic form of humanity. There is no pretense with this "gringo Indio" - and while I can't relate to that either, I can crave it, and admire it, and feel somehow better that at least there is someone out there in the world who has cast off his modern, materialistic fetters and found his true self.
At least there was.
Micah True, the name by which he was most recently officially known, left this world sometime between last Wednesday and Saturday when he did not return home from a 12-mile run in New Mexico. His body was found in the wilderness, and the cause of his death is yet unknown. But perhaps we already do know - he predicted it himself, to McDougall, when he said, "When I get too old to work, I'll do what Geronimo would've if they'd left him alone... I'll walk off into the deep canyons and find a quiet place to lie down" (Born to Run 281).
I was touched by this man's integrity, his commitment to his life style, to be poor and free, to be true and loving. And I only know him from reading one book. Imagine the impression he made on the many people who knew him well, and those who were fortunate enough to run with him, or meet him in his element.
He gave a pep talk to the motley group that assembled for the first ever Copper Canyon Run in Urique, Mexico, and told them that, "Americans are supposed to be greedy and selfish, but then I see you acting with good a heart. Acting out of love, doing good things for no reason" (Born to Run 255). And he encouraged this craziness, calling them Mas Locos, making it into an affectionate nickname, as he did with all of his friends.
I sure hope that his crazy influence will flourish even after his death, and that his message of "truth, beauty, love, hope, and peace" will live on in his legacy.
Viva, Caballo. Run free in peace.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Feeling Lucky
There are times when I realize just how good my life is. Sure, I could use a little less stress, a little more money, the metabolism of a twelve year old....
But I have enough of what I need, and more than enough, too. Take my job, for instance. I love what I do. I was asked recently by a colleague if I really liked my job. I thought for a moment, then answered decisively, yes. This colleague was having some struggles, facing a daunting work load, uncertain job security, and troublesome students, and he didn't even know if he had chosen the right career.
Now, I'm lucky. I came into teaching later in life, after experiencing the business sector, and I knew that I needed to find a calling, not just a career. So when I made the transition into education at 30 years old, it was a conscious choice to accept the hard work, the low pay, and often thankless clientele, because I was trading up in the fulfillment category. But the truth is, there is much joy in Mudville, even when schools are striking out with budget cuts, layoffs, scandals, and government scrutiny.
When you work with good people who love what they do and share their passion with you, the enthusiasm is contagious. Same for creativity. One person's great idea for how to deliver a math lesson in a more exciting way can lead to your own idea for how to teach a grammar concept with pizazz. And sharing ideas leads to sharing jokes, and stories, and struggles. Which leads to a feeling of being a part of team, a community.
These last few days, I was even more fortunate. Not only did I get to spend intense quality time sharing ideas with colleagues from my own school, I got to learn from experts and peers about new, innovative, mind-bending ways of teaching and using technology in the classroom. And I got to do it while a substitute took over my class for two whole days, and I was free to absorb as much of this ed-tech culture as I could handle. But wait, there's more! I got to act like a regular adult, taking an hour for a leisurely lunch to chat about what I'd learned with others over a plated meal. I got to sit in the student's seat, listening, learning, taking copious notes, while someone else's feet got tired and voice got hoarse from standing and presenting all day.
And all of this was made possible because, even in this time of belt-tightening, sometimes there are people in charge of things who actually see what has value and find money to invest in it, and that is what my principal did.
So I feel very lucky, on this Luck-o-the-Irish March 17th, as I return home from a valuable conference, where amazing ideas were sparked and shared, and look forward to a day of rest tomorrow so my brain can recover from overload, before I meet my students again on Monday, full of ideas, energy, and appreciation for my lot in life.
Speaking of lots, someone bought me a lottery ticket yesterday as part of a pool. I don't know yet if we have won. When I said I have enough of what I need, I didn't mean I would turn down a little pot of gold if one happened to pop up in my way!
But I have enough of what I need, and more than enough, too. Take my job, for instance. I love what I do. I was asked recently by a colleague if I really liked my job. I thought for a moment, then answered decisively, yes. This colleague was having some struggles, facing a daunting work load, uncertain job security, and troublesome students, and he didn't even know if he had chosen the right career.
Now, I'm lucky. I came into teaching later in life, after experiencing the business sector, and I knew that I needed to find a calling, not just a career. So when I made the transition into education at 30 years old, it was a conscious choice to accept the hard work, the low pay, and often thankless clientele, because I was trading up in the fulfillment category. But the truth is, there is much joy in Mudville, even when schools are striking out with budget cuts, layoffs, scandals, and government scrutiny.
When you work with good people who love what they do and share their passion with you, the enthusiasm is contagious. Same for creativity. One person's great idea for how to deliver a math lesson in a more exciting way can lead to your own idea for how to teach a grammar concept with pizazz. And sharing ideas leads to sharing jokes, and stories, and struggles. Which leads to a feeling of being a part of team, a community.
These last few days, I was even more fortunate. Not only did I get to spend intense quality time sharing ideas with colleagues from my own school, I got to learn from experts and peers about new, innovative, mind-bending ways of teaching and using technology in the classroom. And I got to do it while a substitute took over my class for two whole days, and I was free to absorb as much of this ed-tech culture as I could handle. But wait, there's more! I got to act like a regular adult, taking an hour for a leisurely lunch to chat about what I'd learned with others over a plated meal. I got to sit in the student's seat, listening, learning, taking copious notes, while someone else's feet got tired and voice got hoarse from standing and presenting all day.
And all of this was made possible because, even in this time of belt-tightening, sometimes there are people in charge of things who actually see what has value and find money to invest in it, and that is what my principal did.
So I feel very lucky, on this Luck-o-the-Irish March 17th, as I return home from a valuable conference, where amazing ideas were sparked and shared, and look forward to a day of rest tomorrow so my brain can recover from overload, before I meet my students again on Monday, full of ideas, energy, and appreciation for my lot in life.
Speaking of lots, someone bought me a lottery ticket yesterday as part of a pool. I don't know yet if we have won. When I said I have enough of what I need, I didn't mean I would turn down a little pot of gold if one happened to pop up in my way!
Friday, March 16, 2012
Blogging while blogging
Is this a surreal moment? I am sitting in a conference session on how to use blogging for education.... So I am thinking of my blog, and here I am, blogging about it. Hmmmm....
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
The two little words that make your knees go weak
Public speaking.
Right up there with spiders, snakes, heights, and wedgies.
Some of you probably got a knot in your stomach just reading those two little words.
So when I assign presentations to my students, I know what kind of reactions I will get: "Oh, no!" "Groan..." and occasionally, miraculously, "Alright!"
What I did not expect, however, was that a very composed young lady, an A student, would come to me to express, in a rare display of total trust, that she has great anxiety for speaking in public.
I was surprised by this admission, especially because she is so competent in everything she does, and she had come after school just to sign up in advance for her presentation slot.
So when she confessed her fears, I decided to respond in kind. I described my recent experience of speaking in front of the school board, the superintendents, and over 100 teachers from all across the district. I described the severe dry mouth, like I'd spent the day walking the Mojave, and the stomach ache that crept up like a slowly twisting wrench.
Her reaction? "I can't imagine you being nervous, Ms. Martin."
I don't know whether that compliment felt better to me, or the sigh of relief she breathed as she laughed a little when I said, "So you see, everyone gets nervous, but your audience doesn't ever have to know. You'll do just fine."
And then her smile, genuine relief relaxing her face as she thanked me.
Being able to ease a young scholar's anxiety and maybe help her to use the power of her words in public someday, that is the best thanks of all.
Right up there with spiders, snakes, heights, and wedgies.
Some of you probably got a knot in your stomach just reading those two little words.
So when I assign presentations to my students, I know what kind of reactions I will get: "Oh, no!" "Groan..." and occasionally, miraculously, "Alright!"
What I did not expect, however, was that a very composed young lady, an A student, would come to me to express, in a rare display of total trust, that she has great anxiety for speaking in public.
I was surprised by this admission, especially because she is so competent in everything she does, and she had come after school just to sign up in advance for her presentation slot.
So when she confessed her fears, I decided to respond in kind. I described my recent experience of speaking in front of the school board, the superintendents, and over 100 teachers from all across the district. I described the severe dry mouth, like I'd spent the day walking the Mojave, and the stomach ache that crept up like a slowly twisting wrench.
Her reaction? "I can't imagine you being nervous, Ms. Martin."
I don't know whether that compliment felt better to me, or the sigh of relief she breathed as she laughed a little when I said, "So you see, everyone gets nervous, but your audience doesn't ever have to know. You'll do just fine."
And then her smile, genuine relief relaxing her face as she thanked me.
Being able to ease a young scholar's anxiety and maybe help her to use the power of her words in public someday, that is the best thanks of all.
Friday, March 2, 2012
Read Across America Day in my classroom, 2012
Some days in teaching it is easier to remember why we do it, why it is worth it. Like today. Seeing 14-year-olds sit, enraptured, listening to picture books being read to them by parents, other teachers, librarians. Their quiet goodness, their childlike desire to be told a good story. It almost makes up for the days when I overhear words that would shame an adult coming from those young mouths, or days when it seems nothing in my curriculum can compete with Justin Bieber-inducing giggle fits.
One of those picture books was the story of a cat who goes in search of the meaning of her name, Wabi Sabi. Along the way, we as readers experience wabi sabi in the illustrations - collages made of torn paper, dry leaves, pieces of photos, and matted fur - and in the haiku that are woven throughout the narrative. Wabi sabi: a sense of beauty in nature, in imperfection, in simplicity and humility, in warmth, and comfort.
Today in my class, all those impulsive, awkward, hormonal 7th and 8th graders were wabi sabi to me.
One of those picture books was the story of a cat who goes in search of the meaning of her name, Wabi Sabi. Along the way, we as readers experience wabi sabi in the illustrations - collages made of torn paper, dry leaves, pieces of photos, and matted fur - and in the haiku that are woven throughout the narrative. Wabi sabi: a sense of beauty in nature, in imperfection, in simplicity and humility, in warmth, and comfort.
Today in my class, all those impulsive, awkward, hormonal 7th and 8th graders were wabi sabi to me.
Haiku for the Facebook Era
The glow of a screen
Keeps us company at night.
"Like" stands in for "Hello."
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