The Usual Chaos

I'm working on a new unit for English 2. And let me begin by saying I don't know what I'm doing! This is my first year to teach English 2 since 1999. My current students weren't even born then! Also, I have just returned to the classroom after a hiatus allowing a student teacher to experiment. I learned so many things from that period, namely, that sitting and watching when used to being involved is one tough challenge! In addition, I'm jumping in head first with another hair-brained idea I borrowed from Shanna Peeples, National Teacher of the Year 2015, and an #NCTE16 session presented by Penny Kittle and Kelly Gallagher. Yeah, I can go home and completely replicate what all of these pros do, right? Whoa. We started with questions. What do you wonder? What do you love? What do you loathe? And we wrote. Now, we are refining a topic from those questions to pursue. The next step is to create written output in various forms - analysis, poetry, talking. 

I'm back. In the same room same chair same laptop, now a little more worn. same document. It's another cloudy, cool Sunday. Drizzle outside. Ideas inside. And I'm writing. It's the quintessential full circle moment here. This is how my #NaNoWriMo began a year ago, and I'm happy to report that I AM still writing! Since Tuesday, I've only written 1,879 words, but I know where I'm going. On the side, I've mapped out a plot that actually has parts, even if not all the required parts just yet. I've detailed characters to give them dimension and so I don't forget who has which quirk, of course! All of this gives me direction. I have yet to have a moment where, as I sat down to the keyboard, I hesitated and felt empty, lost with no purpose. Yeah, I missed a day or two this week; it was one of those kinds of weeks. But I'm still going! Pride - I think that's the feeling here. And some shock. Didn't know I could do this! Determ

Last year, I participated in National Novel Writing Month for the first time. I accepted a challenge and felt great excitement and pride initially. I wrote about it here . Then, like the big fish that got away from me recently, my novel got away too. Spit the hook and swam on. Since, it has haunted me. Like the ghouls and goblins of Halloween night. I think about it frequently, working through the plot inside my mind, always hitting the same pothole. I recall the rush of writing and the spill of words, my fingertips dancing across my laptop's keyboard. This was a thrill I've not known before, and now, it calls me back. November is nagging my brain as October winds down. But I think I've decided I won't let it nag any longer. I'm going to jump back into #NaNoWriMo regardless. Even if it's hard. Even if I miss a day or two. No matter. Because I want to feel that rush again. I want to play with words and language and verse (yup, currently in verse! who knew?).

Last weekend, I went fishing with my dad. I packed the kids in my silver mommy van, waded through the 5 o'clock Friday traffic, and arrived at Lake Fork in time to meet Dad coming off the water. He'd found the "honey hole" and snagged two - one over six pounds, the other over seven! He knew where to take us the following day. Saturday, he took out Ian, my ten year old, first at six AM. Ian going out for his first official early morning bass fishing with Pops is enough to melt my daddy's girl heart, and as expected, they had a blast. After they came in for lunch, Emily, my seven year old, and I crawled into the boat with Ian and my dad, and we returned to Lake Fork, the Big Bass Capital of Texas for another round.  Initially, we cruised around in the hot Texas October sun. We found solace in the shade of an old bridge. We "wet a hook" as Dad would say but, sadly, with no luck. Then, evening hit. Fishing frenzy time. Dad returned to the "honey h

80/20 60/40 50/50 40/60 20/80 No, it's not the amount of fat in my ground beef or the decline of my eyesight. It's the evolution of my teaching, twenty years in the making.  In the beginning, I controlled 80% of our class time, and my students controlled 20%. I selected everything - their seats, their reads, their pen color. I designed calendars where students connected dots A to B to C easily because I only allowed them to look toward the next dot. Dot B was the only option after A, and I pointed the way. Forced the way, really. With time, I stepped back, adjusting the percentage numbers slightly. Students selected from some output options based on the texts I selected. They read in literature circles on a book or two I provided. They still moved from point A to only point B, but the path was more potato chip wavy than pretzel stick straight. Then, conversion. Metamorphosis. Revolution. Or finally finding myself and my teaching philosophy.  It. Was. Liberating.

One evening a few weeks ago, my almost 8 year old, Emily, was having a night. The scream, pout, tantrum kind of night. Drama was high, and I was doing my best to remain calm and avoid an explosion of anger or a fit of giggles. I'm about 50/50 when it comes to kid fights. I can never predict if I'll react in yelling or laughing. Anyway, this particular incident dealt with toothbrushing. I have come to believe that brushing one's teeth - at least at elementary age - must be akin to chewing shiny metal thumbtacks. Hearing my children protest, one may conclude that I torture them frequently with the help of Crest and Oral-B. This night was no different. Emily was NOT going to brush her teeth no matter what I suggested. Typically, she puts the paste on her brush, clicks two minutes into the timer, and off she goes. But not that night.  Her protests grew, her voice reaching higher and higher octaves as her eyes bulged and her face sizzled. She slammed her bedroom door. She th

In the last few years, I've had the opportunity to talk about teachers from my own educational experience who left their mark on me, and I seem to always goof up my answer. I focus so much on my favorite quirks of each teacher that I miss the sincere and lasting impact part. So, today, on this beautifully rainy Sunday morning, I hope to tell it better. Ms. Marquart at her final spring concert In sixth grade, I stepped gingerly into the CC Hardy Junior High band hall and became a band nerd. The gleaming silver flute with one too many keys spoke to me, and I was soon filling my evenings with the squeaks and squawks of a new instrument, as if hoards of people simultaneously pounced onto a flock of birds - and possibly a cat! I suspect my parents may have purchased ear plugs for this portion of my musical journey. But practice I did because Ms. Marquart expected it. And if I was not prepared, I got THE EYEBROW. Yes, you read correctly. THE EYEBROW. It was legendary, yet even th

It's Sunday, my typical blogging day, and today I find myself on my soap box. Not sure where that phrasing originated, but it's where I am at the moment. I've been pondering what to write for a couple of days now, and I've been struggling to recall an idea that sounded fabulous in my head yesterday. Yet, all that thinking and mental gymnastics lead me back to my proverbial box. The box of growth. It's a year of growth for me. I have two new preps at school, one I haven't taught since 1999 and another I've never taught. I have a student teacher, a first for me. Those two combined put me in a place of constant thinking and strategizing and creating. On many days, it hurts my head! But through the pain, I also know that I'm stretching myself as a teacher and person in ways I haven't before, and that's the kind of growth I like. It's the kind I think we should all experience more frequently. As teachers, we expect our students to grow con

My cousin Tina hugged me closely at our most recent family reunion back in July. She said, "I've been telling everyone I talk to, and I'll tell you also. It's the best advice I have. Take selfies. Take lots. I realize now how few photos I have of us together." I swallowed the expanding lump in my dry throat and squeezed her in return as tears brimmed. I thanked her repeatedly for the advice, and in my mind, I thought She's right. This is something I will do. Rusty Thompson '85 Tina's husband Rusty died last March . He was only 54, and a massive heart attack took him too soon. Rusty bled more maroon than any other Aggie I've ever met, and he was a funny guy. Hysterical. After a short stint   post-graduation  of working at a red and black college in the panhandle, Rusty was hired at Texas A&M and never left. Over time, he became a staple, a permanent part of Aggieland. He worked with thousands of students in Residence Life - including me wh

F-R-I-D-A-Y! It's my favorite day, oh my! It's Friday, hey hey, it's Friday! I click on overhead lights and sing the Friday song as I peel back blankets, sheets, and dreams. My kids groan and giggle and ultimately roll out of bed to don their Degan green; they know that Friday brings Eagle Shuffle , their *favorite* thing of all! At the same time, I select a Hebron shirt from my immense collection, pull on my comfy blue jeans, and think of my day. I smile. It's Friday, and it really is my favorite day of the week! It's not just the promise of an upcoming weekend of home and laughs. Not just the temptation of sleeping in or the exhilaration of watching my Aggies play.  It's Fishbowl Friday. My favorite. In English 2 (and prior in English 3), students gather on Fridays to lead the day. In room 1600, they circle up and run the conversation Socratic seminar style. Half talk and half watch. We laugh. We question. We analyze. We mourn. We hope. We talk. And

Salam, and good morning, worthy friends! Please, please come closer. Welcome (back hopefully) to my blog, place of musings, word plays, and the many bizarre thoughts buzzing around in my brain right here for your reading enjoyment! Come on down! Look at this - a return to the blog after a lengthy summer hiatus. During summer, I wrote, I doodled, I listed - but I never posted.  Wait, don't go! A new post is finally in tact. This is the famous it's-a-new-school-year-and-I-have-so-much-to-say post. My mind is scrolling the faces I met this week seated around my tables, hoping to still remember their names come Monday morning. I see their smiles, their hesitancy, their questioning eyes. I feel my anxiety, my excitement, and my many many uncertainties. And I remember: as the merchant from the beginning of Aladdin  says, "...it is not what is outside but what is inside that counts." Important backstory break: somehow, this is my twentieth (!!!) year to teach. I have n

Last year about this time, my momma came to my classroom. She was in town for another shindig, and I talked her into being a guest speaker. She was scared. I was excited! She was worried. I was thrilled! In the end, she was incredible! See, my momma taught me to love reading. I have never, NEVER seen anyone devour a book the way Mom does. My childhood is filled with images of her in the navy recliner, nearby lamp lighting the words she inhaled. She read those dense books with thousands of pages. She read those books with the Fabio-looking guy on the cover, his hair blowing in an imaginary wind, a desperate girl draped on his arm. And she read as many books as she could carry home from the library. Go, Rangers! In summers, Mom took my brother and me to the local library once a week typically. At first, I played in the children's section, listening to read-alouds and puppet shows and wandering between shelves. I made piles of books covered with illustrated dragons and puppy

Friday - our unused bad weather day - a "free holiday" of sorts. I didn't get a mani/pedi and enjoy a spa day or eat bonbons while lounging next to the pool like most normal  teachers do in their spare time. No, not me. Why be normal ? I geeked out and fangirled at the North Texas Teen Book Festival's educator day in Irving.  What more could a girl ask for? Met my fellow book nerd buddies at the convention center and trekked inside. After climbing to the clouds via escalators, we found ourselves in a room mostly filled with fancy tables. The ones with cloths and multiple forks and properly folded napkins spilling from coffee mugs - just like our usual teacher lunch every day (not!). We stared for a moment, acclimating ourselves to the room, noticing the piles of books for sale in the back and the three authors we came to see in the front. Then, we bought books. Because it's what you do! View from our seats Kate & e lockhart! Next, we found seats

It's in the air like the scent of burnt popcorn from the teacher workroom fogging the halls. It's on our faces like thick blue cupcake icing that will never, never wash off.  What is it, you ask? The spring slide. The end of the year blues. The how-many-more-days-do-we-have weekly question. Yup, it's that time of year. It happens annually. Spring Break concludes, and it takes all of our patience and enthusiasm with it. Students go off for a week and leave any interest and motivation under the blankets where they slept their break away. We teachers leave our efforts to collaborate and abilities to reason in the pages of our reads and on the beaches of our trips. And there is just never. enough. coffee. Ever. That sad and disappointing part of the spring slide/endofyearblues is that it leaves us snarking at each other and our students. Our patience is minuscule and our tempers are pre-lit. And everyone - everyone - we encounter wears a target gleaming, waiting for our

In the fourth grade, I owned an Alvin and the Chipmunks album. You know, the record kind that you listen to on an actual player. Just like mine, radio dial and all! I knew all the songs, word for word, note by note, and I spent my free moments singing them in the front entry way of our home, bumpy dark tile below my feet and adoring fans inside my imagination. Despite having never seen Arthur  or Chariots of Fire  or Rocky  then, I could certainly belt out the themes from the first two and "Eye of the Tiger" from the last. And, when auditions opened for the play Annie  at our high school, I just knew - I knew  - that I was brave enough to try and perfect enough to be an orphan.  One teeny tiny problem - when a young girl of freckles and mousey brown hair learns to sing with Alvin, she is sadly not in the same range as Annie! Thus, my version of "Tomorrow" did not make the cut. My friend Sara was Annie. My friend Holly was Molly (the part I really wanted). An