What I Remember: Kindergarten - 9

Nov. 26, 2018 Kindergarten: Mrs. Lane - You got married mid-year and brought us wedding cake. Someone brought baby rabbits for show and tell. That is what I remember about kindergarten.

First Grade: Mrs. McCurdy - You sent me to the hall for using a classmate's head as a shelf while reciting the alphabet rhyme: "J is for jar, that sits on the shelf." Chris Vernon had a giant bottle of Elmer's glue.

Second Grade: Sorry. I don't remember you. I do remember the gym teacher writing something on my report card that I thought said "Busy"--a compliment! My mom told me it said "Bossy." I still feel defensive about that trait. I prefer to call it “liking my own ideas.”

Third Grade: First year in Ft. Dodge. Again, dear teacher, I've forgotten you. I do remember my best friend, Janet Windschanz and our fort in the attic of her garage.

Fourth Grade: Mrs. Housman - I loved you--because you liked me. You made us laugh. But I chewed on my pencils, and one day you slapped one out of my hand/mouth and said “Germs! Germs!” like they were visible on the pencil. That moment was rather horrifying, and I remember it. But I still loved you.

Fifth Grade: Mrs. Seymour - You wore a beautiful blue scarf with green polka dots. I cried during parent-teacher conferences as I told you and my mother how incredibly bored I was in your room. Why couldn't we ever have crossword puzzles for spelling instead of just lists of words? Janet Windschanz and I used sign language to communicate across the classroom as a way to dispel the tedium and you wanted it to stop. It was disrupting, obnoxious. Sorry. Sort of.

Sixth Grad: Mrs. Noyes (coolest name ever; No Yes). I remember you were crabby. Was that what you wanted me to remember?

Seventh Grade: My memory strays from my teachers. Instead I remember my mother--recycler before her time--making me reuse my brown paper lunch bag until it nearly fell apart, while others at my table got a new brown sack every day. I remember if you accidentally wore yellow on Wednesday everyone said you were queer.

Eighth Grade: or was it Ninth? Mr. Cass began each Civics class by reciting a quotation that we dutifully wrote in a notebook. Stephanie Fallon and I made a ridiculous movie about Watergate. Mr. D-something taught us geometry. On his birthday someone brought a cake and he found the area, then divided the circumference by the number of students in class to determine how big to make each slice.

And that’s what sticks. Cesare Pavese said, "We don't remember days; we remember moments." Slivers of cake bookend my K-9 experience. Maybe there’s a lesson there.

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In Praise of Awkward Practice or Why I Hate Grading

I’ve been grading photo projects, and this makes me think about the aspect of teaching I like least: grading.

If I am teaching in the sweet-spot of learning, my students’ photography (or writing, or

reading, or speaking…) will be messy, awkward, far from perfect.

And that’s good. We need to stumble around in Awkward on our way to Skillful, on our

way to Integrated mastery of new skills.

My mother-in-law and I have been learning to play the accordion for almost two years.

We practice about five times a week. It is joyful learning and I do think we are improving--incrementally.

What would it have felt like to learn the accordion during an Accordion Unit in a

classroom? I suppose there would have been a quiz over what chords matched which

buttons. I would have gotten a C on that (though now, two years later, I’d get an A).

On the first test (“Wait for the Wagon”), my mother-in-law and I could only make it sound

like a song if she played the bass on her instrument and I played the keyboard on mine.

We were thrilled that we could create something that sounded like a song, but had this

been classroom learning, our joint effort would be compared to the student who could

play both hands at once. We might have been given zeros for cheating.

So for two years, we’ve been creating mostly Awkward music that we push into Skillful

and then play at a nursing home. We then select new songs and dive back into Awkward.

If we were striving for A’s, we would only play the songs we already know. (“Wait for the

Wagon” is now fully integrated, by the way.) But real learning--the best, messy, uninhibited

and exuberant  learning--happens in judgement-free arenas.

I love watching my students learn, experimenting with photo composition, caption writing,

camera settings. I try to build lots of Awkward Practice into my teaching, when students

can learn without performance pressure. The photo projects I am grading today are my

students’ evidence of that practice.

And I resent putting grades on that glorious, learningful effort.

On Aging as a Teacher

At NCTE last weekend I roomed with Missy, traveler extraordinaire and brilliant challenger

of weak thinking. She is mulling a career shift, maybe away from the classroom and toward

writing or teacher education, where she could widen her scope of influence. I applaud her:

yes, do it. At 35, her career life is just taking off. She has decades ahead to change lanes,

take an exit, wind along a scenic route, return to the classroom--or not.



I am not fond of regret. It’s anxiety in the rearview mirror, which is even less helpful than

anxiety in the windshield. So I don’t spend my energy in what-ifs.



Nevertheless, at 58 my teaching years ahead are not expansive. This realization both fuels

and tempers me: The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But mine are thinning. And I don’t

have that many miles to go.


At 28, after only five years in the classroom, I stopped teaching to raise my children. I

taught an occasional community-college class and worked as a freelance writer. When

I was 40 I wrote a piece about reaching the halfway point of my life, clocks ticking, and

the closing of options ahead of me. I was feeling a little sorry for myself, but

disingenuously so. In truth I was still young and hopeful.



At 43 I returned to teaching, added a journalism endorsement, re-engaged with my

professional organizations, and fleshed out my second teaching career. Also post-40

I’ve learned to run, ride a unicycle and play the accordion. I’m now a wedding officiant

and dabbling in public speaking. When I consider this, I am reminded that even a few

years offer opportunities for change and growth.



One of my mentors, James Davis, is known in the world of Iowa English teachers for

spearheading the Iowa Writing Project and English education at UNI. Yet his wide-

reaching influence has also included classroom teaching, AEA English consultation,

ISEA leadership, school reform, and writing. He reminds me that although the teaching

corridor ahead of me is not as long as it once was, many doors are still open. Or if not

open, the doors may not all be locked yet. I can try the handle.



Aging gracefully, if there is such a thing, requires optimism and acceptance.

I’m working on both.

Church Camp Syndrome: Life after NCTE conference

11-19-18
5:42 a.m.

Returning from NCTE I am the New Me. Or the Returning Me, I should say, since I’ve seen
her before.She is full of intention, invigorated to leap higher, learn to dunk.

The New Me pushes her way forward--or up, or out--when I attend good conferences
where I’m surrounded by people who challenge and uplift my thinking. I have pages of
notes and gems scrawled in the margins of handouts:

“First conversations need ‘gush.’” - KB

“Victim stance: kids become their own jailers.” - KB

Students need to see “beautifully crafted sentences.” - KB

Shoulder up. - KG

Choose a key passage and “read it the way the author intended it to be read” - KG

What’s going on with this graph? - KG

Give the kids the reins, the decisions - DM

Braid three texts together - DM

“No shouting, no insults, plenty of nuance”- BS, SH

Re-brand “politics” as “participationship” - BS, SH

….and so much, so much more.

The first time I met New Me was at church camp when I was  maybe 11. I returned home
giddy to tell everyone about my new best friend: Jesus. His light shown through me,
I had denounced the greed, sloth, doubt, jealousy and general meanness that had
previously defined me. The New Me was filled with forgiveness, gentle kindness and, if
truth be told, a good helping of sanctimony. I was ready to lead my four siblings to Christ!

“She’s got it,’ my oldest sister hissed. “Church Camp Syndrome. It won’t last long, thank
god, little ‘g.’”

I was dumbfounded, incredulous. How could she say such a thing about my newfound
faith! And yet her words had pierced my balloon. As the holy spirit squeaked out of me,
I knew she was right. By evening I was my familiar greedy, jealous self, watching “Brady
Bunch,” thinking mean things, Jesus forgotten.

My bout with Church Camp Syndrome made me wary, cynical. I’ve learned over the years
to doubt enthusiasm smelted in the blast furnace of a convention hall. But I’ve also grown
less jaded.

My bursting commitment to revamping all weaknesses in my teaching may wither in a week
or two. But rather than distrust this current energy, I am relishing it. I will ride its crest
through this crazy shortened pre-Thanksgiving week and let it buoy me to the shore at
semester’s end.

Thank you, NCTE, for inviting New Me to come up for a breath of air.