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Sunday, March 18, 2012

My teaching philosophy

Required. The word itself carries with it the yoke of suppression by the rules and deadlines of people who are outside of what the participant desires. Only in hindsight do we recognize that the requirements themselves are the framework of a functional existence. Therefore the teacher responsible for piecing together the puzzle for teaching a required course must accept this burden of functioning in the haze of misinterpretation.

For me, that burden is a joy, though.

As I lay the foundation in my senior level English literature class, I imagine these students building on the rock I’ve prepared for them. Don't tell my students, but I've been preparing them for writing throughout their college career by instilling a sense of curiosity.

My philosophy does not just refer to teaching English. I teach English because that’s my life experience. That’s what I do and what I know best. My philosophy of teaching reaches past the boundaries of grammar, literature, and analysis. I want my students to think for themselves. I do not mean my students should spew the words of great philosophers and life experts – although that will come with experience. I want students to be aware of their own potential. I want them to question life and expectations, to consider the possibilities, to refine their own interpretations. Inspiring those lessons is not easy. It takes setting the stage in a classroom that shakes their reality, reaching into their comfort zone and shattering it just a little bit. In my classroom, it starts with a bulletin board decorated with fruit-covered wallpaper. It also means having students analyze a simple essay for deeper meaning – not the writer’s, but their own – or determining who, Hamlet or Ophelia, was more victimized by their parents’ weaknesses in Shakespeare’s Hamlet.

Accessing students’ deeper learning happens once their reality becomes more accessible when viewed through the words of classic literature or modern film, when experienced through the lyrics of a good rock song or the science of a simple math equation, when analyzed through the microscope of exploration. To learn, we must break through the fear that holds us to others’ expectations. The learner must ask the burning question of an eager three-year-old – why? There is a reason that question is one of the six taught to budding journalists. ‘Why’ reveals intent and encourages honesty. It addresses motives, and, in so doing, creates deeper meaning, enabling the student to turn that child’s question into an adult’s philosophy.

To teach that deeper meaning, I teach the basics of writing: the art of brainstorming, the joy of free-writing, the structure of outlining, the randomness of clustering. Once the rough draft is complete, (heh, heh ... this is coming this week, students!) I teach them to question their essay like a journalist, asking them to possibly answer their question “outside the box.” And then comes the greatest sacrifice, peer review, where students must filter through the comments of classmates for the nuggets that will strengthen their work. The process does not end there, that is only when I actively join it and help them direct it. There is a tedious process to completion, but each step holds its own lessons. It’s in revision that we learn to focus our writing, and many a writer has gotten trapped by their own words.

I believe in the revision process, therefore, the final grade for an assignment is given when the student decides the work is complete. I am available to students and encourage early submission to allow for discussion about clarity of voice and whether the assignment may need another revision.

Writing, for many students, is just something for school. They believe they will not need these tools in the real world. Unfortunately, they will learn the truth soon enough. If they haven’t been taught the precision offered by clear writing they will be unprepared as soon as their employer asks for a proposal. The finished product may have too much information arranged haphazardly. When employers ask for clear directions, they may get imprecise writing that leads to confusion, as the chaos made worse by ambiguous instructions that contributed to the Three Mile Island accident.

The importance of writing is what drives me in my instruction. As a teacher, I am part of the process. I lay the groundwork that must be developed until college graduation and beyond. So, in summary, what is my philosophy? I offer students the tools, help them find answers to their questions, and guide them to a finished product using their own words at a newer, expanded level of comfort. The final product must be well-organized and accessible, as I expect my teaching to be.

And when I connect with students in this way, everything is great in my life.


Wednesday, March 7, 2012

Stand for Something Now: A Personal Legend

Stand for Something Now: A Personal Legend: My Personal Legend. According to Paul Coelho's THE ALCHEMIST, it is the thing I live my life to accomplish. "When you want something, all th...

A Personal Legend

My Personal Legend. According to Paul Coelho's THE ALCHEMIST, it is the thing I live my life to accomplish. "When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it," the Old King tells Santiago. But as I studied that book and Antoine de St. Exupery's THE LITTLE PRINCE (a book that should be taught in a companion unit), I realized something. What you experience on the journey to your Personal Legend is sometimes more important than the legend itself.

Okay. Anyone who knows me knows that I've been working to become a published novelist for over a decade. When everything seems to be looking up, that mythical gold ring on the carousel of life eludes me. With the perserverence that came when I realized I had discovered my Personal Legend, I brush off the disappointment and keep moving forward.

What I missed, though, was the fact that I am happy. As I travel the sands of this desert searching for my treasure chest of Spanish dubloons, I have found the soul mate who makes the trip worthwhile. I have realized that my sons are amazing boys-becoming-men. I have admitted that I love teaching and giving my students a chance to succeed in their own Personal Journeys. And I have learned to push my body to new physical goals like running (and finishing) races.

I am not the same writer I was ten years ago -- I don't even recognize her anymore! I grow every time I take a class or finish a manuscript. When I'm revising, I readily dump passages that don't work anymore because I know there's more where those words came from. And I can't remember the last time I had mind-numbing, finger-freezing writer's block. The words are always flowing -- onto my journals, my Facebook essays, this blog, or into my works in progress.

I have made wonderful friends and met great people along this writing journey. I would never change a moment of this trip. Some of my good friends are the most magical writers in publishing today, and that circle keeps growing. Rarely, jealousy rears its ugly head, but I rein it in knowing one day my day may come.

But if my day doesn't come, I'm okay with that, too. See this has been a great journey. Sometimes I made mistakes that threatened the stability of my world, but I've learned how to find that distant star I've been following throughout this journey. I train my compass on North and continue searching. As long as I can see my Personal Legend shining in the distance I know this trip will have been worth every step.

Sunday, February 26, 2012

Some things are meants to be...

The first star of the night, the Wishing Star, always hears the same wish from me: I want to see my books on (and flying off) bookstore shelves. I've been writing since I opened my first diary in fourth grade and wrote about how clearly I could see the world once I got my new glasses. Now I'm waiting anxiously for my new prescription to be filled, but there must be some sort of hold-up with the optometrist!

See, here's the thing. I want to be a published writer. I want my students to read my books. I want to tell the stories screaming to come out of my story-telling head.

I must not be ready -- this is what makes the wait okay.

I believe I will not become a published author until I am ready to move from the wanna-be ranks. But the road out of the depths of wish-dom is long and hard and no one has made a road map. Or have they? Is there some magic spell that will speed me through the steps? Will I wave that magic wand? Last night a writer friend dedicated a book to me, saying she hopes that dedication helps my wish come true sooner. Will it? Should it?

That's the question. If I wave that magic wand, what lesson will I have missed? Skipping a step in the process may mean the difference between a minor mistake and a crucial error. If I am not ready to succeed, will I be unprepared for the masses of critics that flock around all new writers? If I am not full of unsinkable self-esteem, will a child's question destroy my muse?

Maybe my last lesson could be solved by a simple set of bifocals. Maybe by skipping a step I will forever be squinting.

I think I have learned enough to understand that I have very loving and patient guardians watching over my dreams. I don't receive a gift for which I am not ready to fight, and I have been very lucky so far. But have I fought enough? Has my name flooded enough agent's offices and publisher's desks? I wonder. That part is not going to be done with magic or wishes. That part is my job. I think I still have some work to do toward my dream.

And yet, I wonder if I am being confused by the illusion of a world that doesn't exist. Are my "publication dreams" merely a way to sway me against something much better that will Be.

So, that being said, I must remember that I have volunteered to wait. If this dream I have is meant to be, it's only being human that makes me impatient. My wishing star is not ignoring me. She is waiting for the right wish. I just need to have a little more faith ... and maybe a little pixie dust.


 

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

The Love that Believed

For Valentine's Day

When you walked into my life
I knew.
Not like you know the lessons from a blackboard

or a textbook; I knew the way you know that day’s weather
won’t ruin your picnic.
I believed in you so I let you borrow my trust;
I’ve never wanted it back.

When I met you, I knew.
Not in the way we would talk for hours

or how we found time to be together when others
scurried off the beach.
It was in the way I couldn’t look in your eyes
without blushing
and the way you always make me laugh.


When you said hello my heart knew
I would never let you go.
You are the North to my compass.

When kudzu chokes the sculpted maze of
everyday life or my personal hurricanes
ravage well-crafted dreams
the serenity in your eyes steadies me.

Somehow, though, I always knew.
Being with you felt right in the pink streams
of the fading sun and in the quiet trickle
of a winding mountain stream.
It still feels right in the hot ocean breezes and
the whispering wind coursing through palm fronds.
I'm glad I believed in the us that still makes my heart skip.

Monday, February 6, 2012

Alpha and Omega

A story is tickling at my brain again, starting as a poem ...

I know you. There is a ghost in your eyes;
it hovers with memories of a love
truer than the roar of the oceans and the silence of the night.
Time has no power over something so strong.

We’ve been here before – two halves of a whole;
inseparable over the cresting tides of eternity but
ripped apart by a Today that won't allow
the burning of two hearts beating as one.

My soul calls through time and you answer
with the phantom of some long-ago kiss.
You hear me when I need you, even when
the panic in my own cries is muted by cold winds.

Glimpses of the past can’t soothe my pain when I wonder 
if the soft memories of my lips warm you when life gets cold.
When you call, do I appear with whispers of our promise?
Does my love travel to you when you reach for me?

You are the beginning and the end of my existence.
I will go to the edge of time to fold myself into your arms
and bring you home. I wait with a heart at peace because I know
that somewhere, over the distance that separates us, you wait too.

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

The Death Card

He gave in. The man let his standards fall because no one recognized his worth anymore. Actually, they recognized his worth. Those who have had contact with him have praised him, but they're not willing to pay what he's worth. A younger man is so much more functional to their business model. So he lowered his standards.

Initially I wondered what that was like. How does it feel to give in because standing up for yourself isn't getting you anywhere? But I know how that feels. It's like binding your arms in one huge knot. You have to escape yourself just to feel human.

I know how it feels because right now I'm caught up in my own nightmare. I've written a story that needs to be told, but the people who care about my success have told me I have to cut the heart out of my story because it's too confusing. There are too many things happening.

Then the Death card turned up on my Tarot deck.
I don't want to do this. If I cut her heart out, she will die. She will not be the dream I started so many years ago. She will have changed. The truth is, I know I will make the cuts that need to be made. Like the man who sliced off part of his jammed arm in order to survive, I will do what needs to be done to help my story.

I know all too well that the Death card does not mean death. It means change. Change is not a death sentence. It is an opportunity for a new life.