Skimming at Bass Lake

I'm three years old and waste deep in the murky waters of Bass Lake. I've been crying for a while, my fingers are spread wide but my arms droop from heaviness. My mother stands beside my father on shore. He's the one who takes this iconic picture of my childhood. It's an awkward and embarrassing photo.

The camera clicks and my mother reenters the lake, wrapping me in one of the line-stiffened towels that announce the arrival of spring in our household. I spend the remainder of the afternoon digging with sticks, inches from the water, contentedly safe and engaged in my task.

My father wasn't the kind of man who'd make his child cry to get a picture. He practiced the art of peacekeeping the way he practiced photography. He knew when to give in though. My mother had invested too much in the trip and was determined to make it meaningful. Packing grocery sacks with picnic supplies, filling the gas tank, and driving until we found the perfect spot along the Bass Lake shoreline, away from the crowds, my mother wanted to take home a picture perfect photo to commemorate the day.

It was a two-front battle my mother fought: getting me in the lake and battling my father over the camera. She'd go through the packages of photos he'd bring home from the drug store, her face reddening each time. Rustic scenes and wildflowers were little more than rubbish to a woman who returned pop bottles and collected coupons from other people's newspapers. Each photo shoot she orchestrated skimmed a bit from the photos my father was drawn to take. He preserved his life in pictures the way poets capture sensory experiences on paper.

The job he worked provided just the basics for the family but his photography illuminated the spectacular he found in his ordinary life: the milkweed flowers, a dilapidated barn door. His pictures became for him a private treasure only he could interpret. There's definitely a joy in that.

I'm drawn to ordinary beauty just like my father. Give me a William Carlos Williams, Robert Frost or Theodore Rothke poem and my mind revels in the spectacular these artists are able to create with their finely crafted words. My favorite words, from Theodore Rothke's "The Root Cellar," are written in my best cursive handwriting on my office wall: "Bulbs broke out of boxes hunting for chinks in the dark,/Shoots dangled and drooped,/Lolling obscenely from the mildewed crates . . . ."

The visual and linguistic cacophony in this poem is breath-taking.  The way the bulbs break free and entangle themselves, branch out and thrive despite their limited resources, despite their cramped assignment! The way the words stumble on your tongue when you read it aloud. It takes just the slightest gleam of light to give the roots and bulbs the ability to grow. That's a message I'm compelled to share.

I read this poem very much on purpose each year with my students. I figure that if bulbs can break free so can they. They don't know it yet so I let Theodore Rothke teach them. By the third reading of this short poem, they gain clarity in Rothke's final words: "Nothing would give up life:/Even the dirt kept breathing a small breath."  They begin to breathe a little more purposefully as well.

So do I.

The photo at the lake that day, yellowed with age now along the white cropped edges, no longer jeers at me. I'm happiest on the shore, and that's okay with me.

Professionalism, Love, and Defiance

I was deliberate when I took my seat. The courtroom was empty that morning so it made my seating decision easy.  I was feeling defiant and I was going to show it. I sat in the first row behind the defendant, just five feet away, a safe yet empowering position. He turned his head to see who it was and didn't turn around again. I tried not to tremble. It was my duty and obligation, I believed. I sat there alone.

I'd arrived early--I'm always early--to gather my nerves, compose myself, and perhaps get a chance to see some of the other girls.  It was the moment we'd all been waiting for--sentencing day--and I'd expected to see the other teens who'd fallen prey to this man.

I sat in the court cafeteria for a short time, feeling incredibly awkward and lonely, ate a single bite, and then waited outside of the courtroom. A short time later the district attorney arrived, followed moments later by the defendant's attorney with several of the defendant's family members. One news reporter joined the group.

It was a case that had terrified the community for several years. One girl kidnapped off a high school campus in the morning hours, another girl kidnapped from a popular mall on an afternoon. My grandmother, who'd clipped newspaper clippings to warn her grandchildren of the world's dangers, had shown me the clippings from these first two cases. I rolled my eyes slightly, gave her a gentle smile, and told her I was careful, that she didn't have to worry. A year later the newspaper reports would include details about two girls who had been abducted from a movie theater parking lot on a Saturday night. After us, there would be two more victims.

The DA walked up to me and asked if I was ready.  Somewhat confused I asked where the other girls were. None of the other girls were coming, nor there family members, he told me. I paused. A bit dumbfounded I gathered my courage and stepped into the courtroom as the single representative of our group. It was now my responsibility. I took several deep breaths, held my head a bit erect, and entered that courtroom as an envoy for those who paths were interrupted by the perpetrator.

That's why I sat so close to the defendant. I placed myself right behind him--for all of us. I don't know if anyone else would have understood that.

A few minutes later and the judge would sentence him to the agreed upon plea bargained deal of 45 years. I left the courtroom with the DA before the defendant was taken from the defendant's chair. The DA thanked me for coming. And that was it.

It's been almost 30 years since that day but the repercussions of that day linger. Afraid to have any kind of an online voice, I've deliberately chosen a private life, spending my time passionately cultivating the voices of my students so they can live with empowerment and conviction. A bit ironic.

I take a little encouragement from Professor Brian Little though, an extreme introvert himself, who tells introverts to be forgiving of themselves when they miss opportunities to step outside of themselves and take on public lives ("Introverts' Night Out").  He gently reminds us that it's always two things that allow us to adopt that public persona: professionalism and love. Either one of these gives us that necessary push out of the comfy nests we've built for ourselves.

Last year's release proceedings for our abductor ended in a split verdict by the jury. He's entitled to a new trial each year until he's granted release. My friend and I were the only ones to address the jury. The other four didn't return the phone calls made by the DA. I don't blame them.

I'm strong enough to carry the others with me. Love will give me the strength to address any future juries.

I'm feeling a little defiant again too and it's this defiance that's helping me begin my online life. It's definitely time.

Save the Popcorn for the Theater

Equity is a sneaky thing. It's completely possible for teachers to believe they're promoting it in their classrooms yet miss important opportunities with truly providing it.

Reading is a perfect example.

Imagine you're a student sitting in a room with thirty other students. Before you is a bowl of M&M's. You're not allowed to take a single M&M until you've had your chance to read orally from the text during a popcorn reading session.

You scan the text. Twelve paragraphs. Twelve readers at most, unless your teacher decides to read a few of the passages herself, or unless your teacher calls on multiple readers for each paragraph. You've got maybe a thirty-three percent chance of getting a single M&M before you head to your next class.

Popcorn Reading, a strategy long used by teachers, is probably one of the least effective practices for
promoting reading comprehension in the classroom. What popcorn reading promotes instead are performance skills, like being on stage and reciting lines from a script. The students who do get to read and take from the bowl today are thinking about one thing--how to say the words correctly in front of their peers. There's definitely value in that. We want students to be able to speak in front of others. I'm just saying this isn't the best strategy for getting students to think deeply about the texts they read.

Meanwhile, those students who sit passively, clearly the majority, remember some of the content from the text, but because they're simply following along, they're operating at lower cognitive and engagement levels. A few of these students, usually the introverts, are actually reading ahead and targeting unfamiliar words in advance.

But what if a teacher using this popcorn strategy ensures that each student has a chance to read? That promotes true equity, right? In this case, students would read approximately three to five sentences each, resulting in at least one M&M.

Students need more than just one M&M.  They need to read often. They need to read deeply.  We need to develop classroom practices that provide students with more opportunities for active engagement.  How much better would it be for students to read the paragraphs themselves, or to read the paragraphs in partners or groups of four! They're reaching into the bowl much more often like this, and they're able to read at their own pace. If the teacher provides some text dependent questions at a rigorous DOK level, then students are engaged in meaningful reading comprehension strategies.

A friend and colleague of mine shares this phrase with everyone on her educational travels: "If a question is worth asking, it's worth everyone answering the question." I'll add a similar statement and say that if a text is worth reading, it's worth everyone doing the reading.  Popcorn reading creates order and promotes compliance among students. It's just too easy to think that compliant students are fully engaged and thinking deeply.

The Michael Scott Way

It's always about relationships.

Truly effective sales representatives learn to build relationships and listen to their clients before trying to fill their needs. It's the Michael Scott way. The seemingly inept and often loathsome Dunder Mifflin branch manager knew how to connect with his customers and deliver what they needed most. His phone conversations with clients bordered on brilliance. But most importantly, he believed the art of human connection could overcome the dehumanizing sales tactics of his warehouse competitors.

The Michael Scott way helped his branch survive the great recession, and he remained the company's most successful employee.

His passion for paper was bested only by his passion for his coworkers. Michael Scott's employees became his surrogate family, mostly unwillingly, and a replacement for the one hundred children he hoped to have in his pursuit of retaining lifelong friends. Toby Flendersen even took on the role of the troublesome stepchild. Only in the final episodes of his tenure as office manager did his coworkers realize how lucky they were to have him for a "father." A poignant lesson most of us only truly learn once our fathers leave.

It's about relationships.

The pecan pie party I'm hosting for a few students this Friday at lunch is an example of that.

It all started when I visited a classroom to model a teaching strategy at the beginning of the school year. I mentioned how much I adored pecan pie. I may have mentioned that I might bring pecan pie one day since none of the students had tried it. It wasn't an actual promise, but it might as well have been.  Since then a few of the girls have bombarded me with requests for the pie. Come Friday if you drive by Strathmore High School, you may see us on our picnic blanket eating pecan pie together.

Relationships. That's what I'm building with these young ladies. We will sit and eat pie together and engage in small talk.

I'll listen carefully.