Guest Blogger: Hey Little Harbor Writer

The following post is by one of my former students. I am continually inspired by her drive, vivacity and hopeful spirit.  I am honored to post her work here.  

         

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Getting off my flight from Seattle and going straight home from the airport was exciting. I did not see my bed for a good week and missed it so much! My dad opened the front door and I instantly saw a yellow package. I had forgotten I signed up for the Writer's Workshop Program  held in UMass Boston and did not expect for the paperwork to come so soon.  I took my pen and started filling in my information needed but eventually got yelled at by my mom for my sloppy handwriting. July 6th the program started and that’s when everything in my life changed… well in my writing life, that is. 

I finally sat in a classroom where everyone loved to write and all had an equal amount, if anything, more talent than me in writing. I was with “my people.”  The people I had been searching for. The ones who prefer ink time over screen time. For four weeks, I spent four hours a day four days a week improving my writing skills.  I worked on script writing, creative writing, article writing, and all the other fun types of writing. No piece of work was ever neglected, anything written was always admired and was always encouraged to be continued. We named ourselves the Harbor Writers (we had a view of the harbor from our classroom and would turn to the windows when we needed inspiration for our writing)

Free writes took place for twenty minutes every afternoon and discussions followed right after where the groups divided by high school and middle school were allowed to share their thoughts and wonderful writing. 

We were then given an hour for lunch where many memories were created and friendships became more developed. Laughs and jokes always arose from our two tables and an hour never felt like enough.  

After lunch, we were given some focused writing assignment where a certain project was given and students had to create a piece of writing using the project outline. On the nice summer days where it wasn't too humid, we did these assignments in the courtyard outside of the classroom giving us a chance to feel the fresh air and feel blessed for our surroundings.

When the program approached an end, the class put together three of their most cherished writings for our anthology. To top off our amazing and improved writing skills, the class invited family members, teachers, and any other person making a big involvement in their writing careers to a reading. Each student was allowed to read one out of their three pieces of writing to the audience of supporters. This program overall allowed me to improve in my writing, speaking, AND expanded my heart for all the people I met in this program. I did not know what kind of experience I would be sailing into but I docked my boat and stayed for the experience. The Harbor Writers have found a special home in my heart and I will never forget any of those four wonderful weeks!

This is the piece I chose to perform for the audience… ENJOY!

Hey Little Fighter 

Hey little fighter 

Soon things will get brighter

For you are not the size you wear 

or the color of your hair

You are not the color of your skin 

or anything bad said about you 

You are the words you speak 

You are the love in your heart 

You are the smile that brightens each day 

You are beautiful 

So keep your head up 

You are made up of so much beauty 

Please do not forget 

‘For the things that you think define you 

Means absolutely nothing at all 

Words of Wisdom

This was a writing prompt I was given a couple weeks ago and it was pretty fun to write:) 

"Write a letter to a seventh grader that is becoming an eighth grader with advice about what to expect, what to do, and what not to do."

Dear Seventh Grade Me,

Don’t take that dare to wear a tiara during your History Presentation.  Or if you must take the dare find a way to relate it to your topic.  Don’t worry though, the detention is probably worth the laughter in the end. 

I'm not really sure what to say about this picture except "YIKES"

Do take the opportunity to do higher math and don’t worry about how it affects your grade.  It is as important to understand numbers as it is to understand words.  

Enjoy ska and punk while you can.  It will be a somewhat guilty pleasure later in life so get to every concert you can.

Work harder at soccer.  Try to understand the sport, not just get through practice.  Seriously, you have a chance to be really good.  Watch professionals.  

Focus more on singing than on the trumpet.   

Get over the fact that you did not get the princess part in the play but were forced to be the evil stepsister.  You are not in fact, going to go into acting as a career. Besides the prince and the princess holding hands will be priceless blackmail material soon.  

Spend more time with A.  In 3 years she’ll get pregnant and have a baby.  You’ll lose touch and then she’ll get cancer.  One morning you’ll get the call that she died.  You probably won’t be able to change the way things happen but at least enjoy the time you can before she’s gone.  Same for L and E.  They all die young and you’ll miss them more than you expect.  

Have fun, these are some of the sweetest years of your life.  Learn Mrs. Wright’s memory verses and learn to conjugate latin verbs but don’t let a dead language kill your joy.  

Be yourself!  You turn out pretty well and believe it or not you do get married.  And to someone you never could have dreamed up... not to mention the 2 adorable kids you get to raise.  

See you on the flip side,

 30 year old me

Failing

I think we can all come together around this fact...no one likes failure.

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Not even contrarians or masochists can make a compelling case that the sensation of inadequacy is enjoyable.  I felt this very sensation on Saturday when I woke up early to check the National Board Teaching Certification results.  All last school year I worked on my portfolio, all spring I studied for the test.  I took it in June and the results were supposed to be posted this week.  They were. I failed.  

It felt like a baseball bat swung at my stomach.  I wanted a chance to defend myself, to prove my competency as a teacher, but I suppose that is what the assessment is for in the first place and my defense was found wanting.  

Still, I am a never say die sort of person so I keep thinking that if the panel of assessors knew my circumstances they would have been a little more impressed.  Aren’t there points that could be awarded for compiling this 400 page portfolio during a scary and difficult pregnancy?  I went to my final portfolio review while in labor.  Can we get some sort of curve considering I took the standardized test a mere 2 months after my baby girl was born.  How about some credit for hard work?  I put in innumerable hours working on this; hours  stolen from sleeping or showering or even at times, eating.  

So come on NBCT, cut me a break.  

But for as much as I want to fight it, none of those things prove that I’m a good teacher.   

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And this failure has brought me face to face with the reality that I do not inherently deserve success or reward.  

Hard work and pain don’t always equal gain.  

This hurts because it shakes the very core of my protestant work ethic.  

What should I have done differently?   If I can’t pull it together and pass a stupid test what can I do?  Who can I trust to come through in tough times if not myself?  

To retake the assessment is a mere $1,057 but a thousand dollars is a small price to pay to remind me that who I am is not dependent upon what I do.  And those 20 overall points I need to become a Nationally Certified Teacher will not ensure inner bliss and fulfillment.  

So here is how I see it:

(Well, actually this is how a super good friend of mind told me to look at it, and it has made all the difference.)  

Creation- God made me.  He made me with a passion to teach and to read and to write.  He made me a little bit like him with the ability to love and to feel. 

Fall- But, I mess up.  All. The. Time.  I fail tests, I lose important paperwork, I get frustrated and give up. I hurt people that I should be helping.

* Here is where I am right now!~

Redemption- I can’t make it right.  I can’t explain my way out, I can’t just pay the $1,000 and feel better.  Someone has to come to the rescue...some people wait for their inner selves, some for knights in shining armor...me, I’m a big screw up so I am waiting for God himself to come make it right.  (And he has, believe it or not.)

Restoration- Failure makes me eager for the day when all wrongs are made right.  All tears are wiped away.  It’s probably not today, or tomorrow...but I believe in heaven, so even if it takes my whole life, I know at the end of the road there is a there is Someone, the only person I can wholly and completely trust who will look at me and say, “Well done my good and faithful servant, enter into my rest.”  

So, yeah... I’ll take an eternity of joy over an NBTC stamp of approval any day.  

300 Students Who Changed My Life

Dear Students From My First Year of Teaching*,

There were three hundred of you that year (divided between the seven periods and the two semesters) so I can’t give each and every one of you a shout out, but I haven’t forgotten you.   In fact, I bet I’ve thought a whole lot more about you than you have about me.  At least I hope that is true.  

I hope that somehow the time Nathan pointed out the profuse sweat pouring off me- as I fumbled in vain to figure out the procedure for detentions- has slipped your mind by now...but it probably has not.  

I doubt that you have given a second thought to the time Jose stabbed Alex in the hand with a thumb tack; but I have replayed the scream, the blood and the ensuing chaos a thousand times in my head.  

I may be the only one who remembers that it was Steven who was found guilty of flinging an opened string cheese stick at my head after a prolonged “investigation” by the administration.  Don’t worry Steven I forgive you.  

It will be indelibly marked on my brain that the day I had decided I couldn’t handle this gig Dan handed me the most encouraging (and grammatically incorrect) note I have ever received and I decided to stay.

However, there are some things that I have forgotten and I want to apologize for those. 

I forget what in the world made me so angry that I took two of you in the hallway and allowed my face to turn crimson red as I screamed at you with no respect for your dignity as a fellow human beings.

It truly baffles me how I let you talk me into reading my own terrible short story about a shark attack when we shared our writing that first semester.  It was bad, I know.  

I have only the foggiest notion of who told Jay that I looked like the joker and who exactly kept the whole charade of my criminal alter ego going but I’d like to thank you.  It was you who taught me that to students a teacher is not a human, they are a life form that exists only within the confines of the school walls.  

I will probably never remember or recognize all of the mistakes I made that first year. 

But, there is one thing I hope you always remember.  I cared.  I really did.  I cried over you (in the privacy of the teacher’s bathroom).   I prayed for you, every day before you came into the classroom and when you left.  I thank God for you even now because we made it through that year together and truth be told, I learned more from you than you will ever know.

Thank you,

Mrs. S.

To the readers of this letter who were not my students...What do remember from your 7th grade year or about your 7th grade teacher?  

*(names have been changed to protect the innocent and the guilty)

Writing Prompts

One of the greatest hopes in every teacher's career is that you will get at least one student who really listens to you.   They not only listen but they understand.  They understand on a deeper level than most and they do something amazing with the knowledge they gain.  I have had a few of these extraordinary students, one of whom I’d like to write about today.   Day after day she listened to me chant, “Write, write, write!”  She understood that I wanted each and every student to learn how to use words to advocate for themselves and others.  She realized her potential as a great writer.  

Over Christmas break she wrote me an email asking me to help her with her new year’s resolution.  She wanted to write one short story every week. They would be rough drafts of course but every single week they would be delivered to my inbox and I would give her feedback.  I also gave her the prompt at the beginning of each week.  I collected these prompts from Writer’s Digest.com, teachers I admire, teachers’ blogs and websites, I take no credit for the prompts myself but I thought each week I might put a few out there and see which were your favorite.  Try them out and let me know what you think.  Please feel free to share your ideas and work here.  

Week 1-  At exactly midnight on New Year’s Eve you receive an email labeled “Open Immediately.” The really strange thing is that the email is apparently from your self at age 25. What does 25 year old you have to say to  you now that is so important?  Write a story about it:)

Week 2- A mad scientist captures you and tells you that he is about to change your life —he will heighten one of your senses, but it will make one of your other senses duller. It isn’t optional; he’s going to perform the surgery, but you get to choose which two senses.

Week 3 -Eleanor Roosevelt once said, "You must do the thing you think you cannot do." Write a narrative  about a time when you did something you thought you could not do. Be sure to include specific  details so that a reader can follow your story.  

Week 4- You have made a very important discovery–one that will make you famous throughout the world.  Write a story in which you tell about your discovery and how you made it. 

Week 5- Write about a time you or someone else lost something important. What happened?  How did everyone feel/act?  

Week 6-  Describe a time when you were ill or injured.  What did that experience teach you about yourself and your life?  Make sure to include the details of who was there and  how they reacted.

Week 7-   One day, while hanging out on the beach, you notice a boat slowly drifting to shore. It eventually lands near your spot. A person, draped in pirate clothes, yells to you from the boat, “I have a treasure map and I need help. Are you in?”

Week 8- Describe the most beautiful smile you've ever seen.  Be sure to include where and when you saw it and describe the person and the reason they were smiling.  

Week 9-  You decide to run for president of your high school class only to find that your opponent is running a smear campaign about you, trying to make you look bad so people won't vote for you. Worse yet, your opponent has been telling everyone that he/she will drop a bombshell announcement, revealing your darkest secret, in front of the entire school during your first debate. The debate is here. Write the scene where the bombshell secret is announced and describe how you react to it—remember, the entire school is watching. 

Week 10- Create a written snapshot of the moment in which you are living...for 15 minutes stop and listen until the silence is deafening...Look around you and notice every detail..  The stains on the walls or furniture, the labels on any boxes or bottles, stickers, magnets.

Blind

I have recently embarked upon a degree in Special Education. One of my assignments was to write about a time that I felt disabled. Here is what I remembered as I began to write (it turned out to be longer than I intended):

When I was six years old, I underwent major eye surgery. Born with a lazy eye, I had experienced double or blurred vision since the day I came into the world. In August of 1990, that finally changed.

As a precocious six year old, I was convinced there was nothing wrong with me. I liked picking out glasses but I hated going to the eye doctor. He gave me tests I could not pass and it was infuriating. He’d ask me to point out the object closest to me but they all looked exactly the same. I’d shake my head to indicate that I could not do it. He would get a look of disapproval that cut to my heart. I learned to guess the answers, and then to memorize them, since I had to take the tests so many times. Sometimes my guesses would be right, more often than not, they’d be wrong.

All of this occurred before I had even entered kindergarden. That year my eyes became so bad that the doctor prescribed a patch over my weaker eye. I got to pick it out and I picked out a packet of beautiful rainbow patches, disposable so that I would get a new one each day. It stuck to my eye and was uncomfortable- not to mention that it obstructed a whole half of my field of vision. Still, I was confident on my first day of kindergarden.

I will never forget how those kids stared and laughed at me. The crashing of my self-image remains crystal clear in my memory. I was humiliated. They laughed and laughed and there was nothing the teacher could do about it, the damage was done.

I learned to throw my patch away before entering the school. I had to keep it on in the car with my mom, but before I went in the door, the patch was off. I can still picture the crumpled rainbow against the inside of the black trash bag. I'd try to drop it in casually so that no one would notice.

Obviously my vision got worse. It became hard to see anything and I could not read at all. The doctor warned my mom that my eyesight was deteriorating and that he was afraid I would eventually lose sight in my left eye. So, he suggested a fairly new surgery where the muscles in my eyes were cut and reattached, forcing them to work together and not allowing the shifting of my weak eye.

My mom agreed and I was excited. All the attention and preparation made me feel like a star. I couldn’t wait to go to the hospital, I even got to ride in a red wagon into the operating room. I had no idea the nightmare that lay ahead. It turned out that I was allergic to the anesthesia that they gave me. I woke up in a panic, screaming and kicking; trying to pull the IV out of my arm. I was terrified. What made things worse was that they had bandaged my eyes and I could not see. It would be like that for a week. I finally settled down but the darkness was still frightening. I wanted so badly to rip off the bandages.

The week that followed was excruciating. I could listen to movies but not watch them, I ate mostly ice chips and crackers. I was in pain a lot of the time.

But, when they finally took the bandages off, I could see. I looked out the window and saw light filtering through gorgeous green leaves. It was like nothing I had seen before and it was so beautiful.

However, all of the blood vessels in my eyes had been broken and I had to wear sunglasses because my appearance scared the other children. Again, I was an outsider to those my own age but I knew that I was going to get better. And I did. The surgery worked and I could see far better than before. I still only had limited three dimensional vision but over the years that has improved.

Looking back, I am so grateful for the support of my parents and the wisdom of my doctor. I wish that I could erase my fear of hospitals or the dreadful memories of being laughed at in school. I wish that I could prevent that experience for all of my students. No one should ever feel like they are less than human because of a disability.

Victory

I have to take a moment to share a personal triumph- one that is unrelated to writing or to publishing but is dear to my heart.

Usually teaching in an urban middle school is as unlike the inspirational movies as water is unlike oil. I weep sometimes when I see the hopeless cycle of poverty at work in the lives of my students each day. My triumphs are usually invisible. I am forced to walk by faith and not by sight.

However, today I saw something wonderful. Today was the Winter Middle School Speech Meet. Schools from across the state came and watched as their students showcased their rhetorical and dramatic skills. I entered 5 students from my school. Most of the schools are affluent and their teams are 25-75 students strong. They practice everyday in and out of school. My students come before and after school but we are by no means a well-oiled powerhouse. Still, the league has welcomed us with open arms and my principal and co-workers are beyond supportive. The parents pull together to get the kids to the meets since we cannot afford transportation.

My students love the experience of competing. They love to see the beautiful schools we get to compete at. They love that they get to eat doughnuts for breakfast. They love meeting new friends and discovering that they are not as different as they had imagined. They love to speak their minds and be really heard.

One student, who I will call Mona, is exceptionally gifted. Her event is impromptu, which means she has 7 minutes to write and perform a speech on a subject she pulls randomly from an envelope. Her ability to do this amazes me,. Today alone she performed 3 times which means that in a span of several hours she composed and delivered 3 different speeches.

There is little need to point out that the day was long and exhausting. By the end of it judges, coaches and competitors all seemed sapped of energy. By the awards ceremony at 4pm I was just happy that my students had made it there, stood up and delivered their speeches, regardless of their scores. After all for a pre-teen to dedicate hours of free time and subject themselves to hard work and possible humiliation is no small victory.

At the end of the day we sat in the auditorium experiencing the emotional stress of the awards ceremony. I felt an ache bruising my heart as I watched the disappointment on my students’ faces. I had not really prepared them well. I had not told them that this is not elementary school, not everyone gets a ribbon, not everybody wins. Still, it mended my heart a little to see their excitement endure despite their lack of visible reward.

And then, the finalists for impromptu were called up. I heard Mona’s name. That sound illuminated the faces of each and every one of my students and my heart began to pound in my chest. I watched her up their as honorable mention was announced, 6th place, 5th place and tears began to well in my eyes. The winners of 4th place and 3rd place were also announced and dismissed. On the stage stood only two students: Mona and a boy from a rival school. (A school, I might add, that is known for its prowess in impromptu.) I was so proud my heart began to ache again, this time with joy.

And then they announced the winner, and it was her! It was Mona, and for that moment I felt my eyes, heart, soul and mind fill with hope and gratitude. I was cheering with my whole being. I was so proud. And her mom was there, she had made it just in time, and the other students celebrated like we had all won... because in a way we had.

I suppose in the end this does have something to do with writing for it is some of the richest food for thought I have tasted. I can ask for no better holiday tale than one so full of triumph, hope, courage and love. It was an undeserved gift and I wanted to share it.

Winter White

When I teach symbolism to my students I always use the classic examples. Sunshine often represents hope. Water means cleansing. White stands for purity. I taught the lesson on symbolism last week to my night class and I began to think about how highly cultural and personal symbolism can be.

Then, last night it snowed. The first snow of the winter. Usually this event represents the hope of school closings, days spent at home in my pajamas, or outdoor adventures with my husband. But this year, the white felt like a heavy blanket, covering me with the weight of things not yet accomplished and the increasing difficulty of accomplishing them in the oncoming bleak weather.

As I contemplated these feelings and my lesson on symbolism I found that winter white is a good symbol for who I have been (and not, I think, for who I would like to become).

I was born in the cold. I grew up clearing the ice to skate, stacking the wood for warmth, bundling myself up before bed. The white of winter reminds me of my own cold heart, my icy independence, my perfectionism like snow killing the grass below.

The winter white is blank, it causes blindness, it shimmers and cracks. I, too, feel blank. I attempt to keep my personality that way in order to complement the expectations of others, never to clash. This emotional whiteout has blinded me to who I am, who I was created to be. I may shimmer with talent and promise but I crack upon closer inspection.

My life is like winter white, and I am waiting for the warmth of Christmas, of Christ, my Messiah to arrive.

What are some symbols that run through your writing? Or perhaps more importantly, through your life?

Genre

Perhaps the most telling sign of my immaturity as a writer is my lack of direction.   As I exclaimed so dramatically in my last post, “I don’t even have a genre.” 

In school, my teachers always made me stretch my writer’s muscles and experiment with a multitude of forms.  Now, I feel the overwhelming need become more focused and purposeful.  

I have undoubtedly begun to write more fluently under the inscrutable eye of the world wide web. Still, genre eludes me.  And I have the nagging sense that until that point becomes clear I am stuck in a quagmire.  

This sort of decision making has always been a trial to me.  When I was applying to graduate school, I asked one administrator if I had a better chance to get in if I studied to be an elementary school teacher rather than a secondary one.  She scoffed at the thought.

“Well, personally,”  she condescended, “I think you can only be one or the other.  If you’re meant to be a secondary teacher you’ll be no good in elementary.”

I disagree.  (And fortunately middle school offers me the both/and solution I was looking for.)  But is this theory true in writing?   Can you dip into many wells or are you meant to be loyal to only one genre?  How do you know what you are meant to write?

Pondering these questions I have collected the following reflections on various genres:

~Poetry: The most manageable and satisfying to craft but the hardest to truly master.  I love it and fear it.

~The Novel: An impossible dream.  Beautiful and subtle, compelling and rich, yet fearsome to undertake, let alone finish.

~Nonfiction: Tempting because it is by nature helpful to readers and I want to create something helpful.  Lamentably, it can be dry and more importantly I am not really an expert on anything. 

~Memoir: The crowning achievement of any writer’s life.   At the moment, however, perhaps a bit too presumptuous.  

~Short Story: A good compromise between the poem and the novel.  Yet, it bears the difficulties of both.  It is distilled so that every word must be gold and yet it must have an ending that wraps up all the loose ends .  I fear I am not that succinct.  

There are certainly other genres to explore but those are the ones I am rummaging through at the moment.   Which ones have you explored?