ONE YEAR WITH AN ENGLISH TEACHER

Day 118, March 31, 2008

Today, the first day back from vacation, I thought I was ready to be a good teacher. I thought, after two long, lazy weeks, that I was prepared to be an observant and mindful teacher, someone who could notice small details about his students, stay aware of the overall plan of the lesson, and keep track of things he was learning during the class. You would think two indolent, refreshing weeks would make it relatively easy for a person to be this kind of teacher. Well, think again, because I was not a quality teacher today. I had good lessons planned for the students, but for some peculiar reason I sort of drifted through the classes, following the lessons in little more than a mechanical manner.

Why does this happen??? What do I need to do to be a totally attentive and heedful teacher, each and every day.

On Saturday, I did my exercising down in the park in faultless spring weather. It might have been a touch on the cool side, but I loved the feeling of amiability in the air, as if all the rough-and-ready assertiveness of winter is over for good. Everything seemed gentle and obliging. The air was still, and the grand trees in the park were so motionless they seemed to be waiting for something. I hiked up and down a hill near an enormous oak, whose great branches leaned over the greening grass in an utterly peaceable way. Each time I got to the top of the hill, I would pause for a moment to take in the view of the glassy pond and the swirling ripples the passing breezes caused on its surface. My workout session was more like fun than work. It was exercise of a most agreeable kind.

ONE TEACHER’S ALPHABET

O is for Ownership

I’ve often heard teachers, including myself, say to students something like, “You have a mind of your own,” but in the last few years I’ve been wondering if students, or any of us, actually do. Saying that students have a mind of their own implies that they “own” their thoughts, that they somehow created their thoughts on their “own” and therefore have sole possession of them. It’s as if there are thousands of distinct physical things called “thoughts” in each student’s brain, all of which are rightfully the property of that student. More and more, that seems to me be an inaccurate view of the way things really are. My students and I don’t own our thoughts any more than one part of the sky owns a breeze that’s passing through it. Thoughts constantly come to us, swirl around in our minds, mix with other thoughts that are passing through, and then they all eventually relocate to other people, usually through our own words, but sometimes through our actions or even gestures. Certainly remnants of each thought are left behind with us, but then parts of these remnants mix with newly entering thoughts and eventually move along to other minds. How, then, can we say that any of our thoughts are really “ours”. Did we actually create from scratch a single thought in our entire lives, or did all of “our” thoughts simply pass through us from far, far distant places? Perhaps our thoughts got their start long, long ago in persons we’ll never know, and, by wonderful meandering paths, in due course made their way to my students and me in English class. In that case, we actually don’t have a “mind of our own”. Our thoughts don’t belong to us, but rather we’re merely borrowing them for awhile, sooner or later to send them on their way for others to enjoy.

In Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park, Fanny Price gets one of her greatest pleasures from simply listening quietly to other people. This is due, in part, to her natural shyness, but it is also caused by her honest interest in what others have to say. She enjoys listening. She carefully takes in what she hears, analyzes it, and compares the statements of different people. She also performs a wonderful service to others by letting them know that she is listening, that she does care about what they are saying, that she is not just waiting for her chance to talk. Reading about her quiet, attentive, and receptive approach to conversation has led me to think about some of my students – the reserved ones who rarely talk in class. Teachers generally feel that this is a weakness in a student, but, after getting to know Fanny Price, I’m not so sure. What is weak about being a conscientious listener? May it not be that some of my quietest students are also the best listeners? When they are quiet for nearly an entire discussion, perhaps they are taking in what everyone is saying, and thoughtfully learning from it. Perhaps, like Fanny, being silently open to what is being said is their best way to learn. Of course there are some students who are quiet because they are not interested or haven’t done their homework, but they could be in the minority. Most of the silent ones might be Fanny Prices – just trying their best to take in what the world is trying to teach them.

Last night, in the middle of my college class, my students and I heard a knock on the classroom door. I looked at the open doorway, but didn’t see anyone, so I continued talking. Then the knock came again, a very faint tapping. I called out, “Come in”, and was answered by a quiet voice: “Could you please come out in the hall?” I was puzzled, as I’m sure we all were, but I excused myself from the class and went out into the hall. There I met a young, dark-haired woman who was visibly nervous, and who seemed, as I talked with her, strangely sorrowful and scared. She motioned to me to come away from the door so no one would hear, and then she asked me if it was too late to be in my class. She said she was enrolled in the class but that she missed the first two classes because of what she called a “domestic violence” situation. She didn’t describe the situation, but I could tell from her trembling body and frightened voice that she had been through a painful experience. I also couldn’t help but notice the bruise marks around one of her eyes. I assured her that it was not too late to join the class, and I brought out to her the important papers for the class. She smiled uncertainly, thanked me, and turned and walked down the hall to the stairs.

I’m sitting in my rocking chair at 6:00 a.m. this morning, getting ready for the second baseball game of the major league season, broadcast live from Tokyo, the Red Sox against the A’s. I watched yesterday’s early morning game also, sipping my first cup of coffee and enjoying an egg-on-bagel sandwich. It’s a thrill to start the baseball season this way – a fine way to celebrate the arrival of warm weather and a cherished pastime. The daylight is just beginning to brighten my little town as the first batter for the Red Sox steps in.

In today’s reading, the centurion says “I am a man under authority”, meaning he understands the chain-of-command and knows who’s the ultimate commander-in-chief. This system of authority was obviously so clear to him that it was a central part of his life. He always had it in mind, which made it easy for him to see where the real power lay in any situation, no matter how small.

Today, I hope I can be as clear-headed as the centurion, always aware that the ultimate power – the only power – lies with infinite Thought, infinite Mind.

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Everything is a belief. Sickness, health, failure, success – whatever happens to me today is caused by a belief I am entertaining. I can’t possibly overestimate the incredible power of belief. At any given moment, the power of belief around the world is vast, astronomical, immeasurable.

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“There is but one primal cause.” An amazing truth, that each of the zillion things that will happen around the universe today can be traced to one infinite cause – Thought, Universal Mind, God. Things happen because Thought happens.

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Yesterday I spent the morning at school organizing my annual “April Poetry Madness Tournament”. It was fun to methodically put the 64 poems into a specific order so the tournament can run smoothly. I first spread the poems across the tables in the room, then read and re-read them as I strolled back and forth, and then slowly arranged them into an order than I thought might produce exciting competition. I felt like a powerful leader marshalling his forces – in this case, 64 of the best poems I could find, poems of varied styles and themes, classic and contemporary, from Shakespeare to recent U.S. poet laureate Billy Collins. When I had systematized everything, I carefully drew up my tournament brackets on a 3’ x 6’ roll of paper, lettered in all the poems, and posted the chart on the hall bulletin board for the students to see when they return to school from spring vacation. It was a good morning of sorting, ordering, and arranging, perhaps a harbinger of an orderly April in English class.

Today I attended a cordial gathering to celebrate the Easter season, and it brought to mind the true meaning of family. I was not with ‘my’ family today; these were not ‘my’ children and grandchildren. (They were celebrating the holiday with their mother.) I was at some friends’ house and the other guests were their children and cousins. It was their family, not mine, that was surely feeling great satisfaction in their love and togetherness. Nevertheless, as I watched the friendly festivities throughout the afternoon, I felt no envy, no wish that this was my personal family celebrating together so affectionately. What I realized so clearly was that this was, in fact, my family. All of us who were sharing this food, this house, this planet, and this universe were members of the human family and – more than that – the family of life. We were part of a family that began with the ‘big bang’ some 15 billion years ago, and as such, we were just as inextricably connected to each other as my own brothers and sisters. In some miraculous way, several trillion of the atoms that were created those billions of years ago came together today in a house in Stonington in the form of 30 people. None of us were separate, really (though we humans like to think we are). At the party, we all shared glances, words, thoughts, feelings, and oxygen. Life flowed through, between, and among us just as surely as water flows in a river. I was a part of these people and they were a part of me, just as surely as I am a part of my children and they of me. It was my family, indeed, and it was the family of all of us. I truly felt as much affection and intimacy as if I were enjoying the day with Luke, Jaimie, Annie, Matt, and their spouses and children.

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ONE TEACHER’S ALPHABIET

U is for Unlimited

As far as I can tell, nothing is more prevalent in educational circles these days than the idea of “limitation”. I constantly read and hear about boundaries that supposedly prevent students from achieving particular goals. Whether the boundaries are called ADD, ADHD, word retrieval issues, problems at home, or some other name, they all make it appear as though an individual student is somehow limited as to what he or she can accomplish. They present a picture of a human being surrounded by an invisible fence, beyond which he simply cannot go. I emphatically reject this notion, because I have a very different belief about human beings. I believe that the potential of every person is wholly unlimited. To me, each of my students is a vast and inscrutable mystery, as limitless as the universe itself. For any person, even the most well-informed expert, to suggest that he or she understands a student well-enough to place boundaries around that student’s potential seems to me the height of foolish overconfidence. It seems as silly to me as pretending that we can predict how many stars in the sky will be born and die this year. To use another analogy: If an erudite professor of geology were standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon, would he be willing to predict how the grandeur of the canyon might change in the coming years? Would he be prepared to say the canyon could be grand in only one certain way – that its beauty could not go beyond specific limits? I don’t think so ... and neither do I think teachers should consider themselves expert enough to make predictions about the grand canyons called students. How can any of us possibly see into the vast inner life of a student and make prophecies about his or her potential? Do we believe that a student is any less mystifying or magnificent than the Grand Canyon? I know I don’t.

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Last night I had some friends over for a simple supper and good cheer. I cooked spaghetti with olives piquant and lemony green beans (from a new cookbook) and we had a merry evening together. We talked of many things and read many poems aloud, but not this one. (I wish someone had.)

Ode to My Socks

by Pablo Neruda (translated by Robert Bly)

Mara Mori brought me
a pair of socks
which she knitted herself
with her sheepherder's hands,
two socks as soft as rabbits.
I slipped my feet into them
as if they were two cases
knitted with threads of twilight and goatskin,
Violent socks,
my feet were two fish made of wool,
two long sharks
sea blue, shot through
by one golden thread,
two immense blackbirds,
two cannons,
my feet were honored in this way
by these heavenly socks.
They were so handsome for the first time
my feet seemed to me unacceptable
like two decrepit firemen,
firemen unworthy of that woven fire,
of those glowing socks.

Nevertheless, I resisted the sharp temptation
to save them somewhere as schoolboys
keep fireflies,
as learned men collect
sacred texts,
I resisted the mad impulse to put them
in a golden cage and each day give them
birdseed and pieces of pink melon.
Like explorers in the jungle
who hand over the very rare green deer
to the spit and eat it with remorse,
I stretched out my feet and pulled on
the magnificent socks and then my shoes.

The moral of my ode is this:
beauty is twice beauty
and what is good is doubly good
when it is a matter of two socks
made of wool in winter.

Yesterday a rainstorm blew in, so I stayed cozy most of the day in my cheerfully lit and warm apartment. I read some chapters from Mansfield Park, put together my new desk from Target, organized some poems for my students to study in the spring, and did my daily writing. I also spoke to a cleaning lady who was doing the apartment across the hall, and asked her what she would charge to clean my apartment. She breezed through the rooms, asking things like, “Is that chair from Pier 1? Oh, how about that table? Pier 1?” As she was leaving, she said, “Excuse me, but you seem like a pretty intelligent person. Just a guess” ... and then she was gone. (I may hire her services. The apartment could use a bi-weekly cleansing.)

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From Mansfield Park, a wise statement about how trials and afflictions can, in the end, bring a certain “charm” to one’s life:

“...and though there had been sometimes much of suffering to [Fanny]; though her motives had often been misunderstood, her feelings disregarded, and her comprehension undervalued; though she had known the pains of tyranny, of ridicule, and neglect, yet almost every recurrence of either had led to something consolatory: her aunt Bertram had spoken for her, or Miss Lee had been encouraging, or, what was yet more frequent or more dear, Edmund had been her champion and her friend: he had supported her cause or explained her meaning, he had told her not to cry, or had given her some proof of affection which made her tears delightful; and the whole was now so blended together, so harmonised by distance, that every former affliction had its charm.”

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This morning, a dark and rainy one, I was reading a book of poems about prayer when I came upon this old favorite. Reading it again helped me appreciate the “dearest freshness” of even a damp and murky day.

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GOD’S GRANDEUR

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; Bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

-- Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889)

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Today I spent some time organizing my hundreds and hundreds (thousands?) of poems. I clipped all the loose poems into my two large binders, arranging them with the other ones in alphabetical order by titles. It was good to see them so tidily placed together, and I took some pleasure in merely flipping through them, reading a few but mostly just admiring the sheer numbers of them. Over the last five or six years I’ve put a lot of myself down on paper, and glancing through these orderly binders gave me a sense, I guess, of the order and harmony of my life. I’ve had my share of struggles and predicaments, but somehow the words of the poems painted a picture of overall concord. Perhaps, one way or another, the intrinsic peace of the universe finds its way into my poems without my knowing it.

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IF

by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!

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On this, the first day of my spring vacation from school, I did what I most love to do: nothing of importance. I didn't check off anything on my list, or run any vital errands, or get caught up on overdue chores, or fulfill any duties, or prepare for any special events. I just breathed and looked and listened and read and wrote and thought. Nothing important.
In my reading, I came across this lovely quote in Jane Austen's Mansfield Park:

"...his eyes soon turned, like hers, towards the scene without, where all that was solemn, and soothing, and lovely, appeared in the brilliancy of an unclouded night, and the contrast of the deep shade of the woods. Fanny spoke her feelings. "Here's harmony!" said she; "here's repose! Here's what may leave all painting and all music behind, and what poetry only can attempt to describe! Here's what may tranquillise every care, and lift the heart to rapture! When I look out on such a night as this, I feel as if there could be neither wickedness nor sorrow in the world; and there certainly would be less of both if the sublimity of Nature were more attended to, and people were carried more out of themselves by contemplating such a scene."

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This morning, over a breakfast of spinach, carrots, jalapeno mayonnaise, egg whites, and whole wheat raisin toast, I read a chapter in Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park, and came upon these delightful sentences:

“Poor Julia, the only one out of the nine not tolerably satisfied with their lot, was now in a state of complete penance, and as different from the Julia of the barouche-box as could well be imagined. The politeness which she had been brought up to practise as a duty made it impossible for her to escape; while the want of that higher species of self-command, that just consideration of others, that knowledge of her own heart, that principle of right, which had not formed any essential part of her education, made her miserable under it.”

Above all Austen’s talents was the ability to construct sentences that are both complex and graceful, both elaborate and clear. I don’t want my students to write like Jane Austen (her language and grammar are 200 years old), but I wouldn’t mind if they were able to employ some of her combination of density and simplicity. (Of course, in the above quote I also admire the ethical stance the author takes. She understood the difference between good and evil, and wasn’t afraid to occasionally preach about it. I have a high regard for that quality in a writer.)

My son Luke and my grandson Josh visited this morning, and as usual, the little lad charmed me right from the start. He was born with the natural ability to please and delight, and his talent was in full flower today. Just his look as he stares at me is enough to totally beguile me. We first stopped for awhile in my apartment, where Josh himself was somewhat spellbound by the new surroundings. He wandered around staring at everything and occasionally saying a soft sound of wonder and amazement. Still, he was at his own bewitching best, because I just sat there and stared as the small boy played with a candle holder on the coffee table. We then walked over to the library, where Josh led us from display to display and from book to book, we following along like his enchanted servants. From there we walked to a pizza place and enjoyed a hearty lunch, and throughout the meal Josh captivated me with his ability to find magic and pleasure in a simple straw. When we gave our hugs and said our goodbyes at my apartment, I foresaw a fairly ordinary afternoon stretching ahead. With Josh’s magic gone, the coming hours looked terribly run of the mill.

ONE YEAR WITH AN ENGLISH TEACHER

Day 117, Friday, March 14, 2008

Today, having completed the arduous “English Assessment” process, there was a noticeable sense of relief among the 8^th graders. Their fears and worries had obviously been alleviated now that the ordeal was over, and you could almost see that their bodies and minds carried a lighter load. They were free (at least for awhile) of anxiety and distress. Life was once again more of an amusing pastime than a strenuous task. I saw more of the normal adolescent behavior than I usually see during the school day – more laughing, leaping, skipping, grabbing, and gallivanting. It was as if a herd of wild antelopes had been set free from their pens. About all we teachers could do was keep them within reasonable bounds and prevent them from harming themselves. I actually did get some production from the students during English class, mostly because it was the kind of free-spirited work that matched their mood. We listened to a buoyant song by Paul Simon and then the kids spent a few minutes writing down whatever came to their minds. The resulting poems and sentences were natural, untamed, and beautiful expressions of their feelings of freedom after weeks of concentrated academic work.

ONE YEAR WITH AN ENGLISH TEACHER

Day 115, Wednesday, March 12, 2008

Today we began the 8^th grade English Assessment presentations – an extremely taxing project in which the students have to summarize a great amount of material in a 20-minute talk before their classmates and a panel of judges. Each year, I am astonished at the poise and wisdom of the students as they make their way through their presentations, and today was no exception. All of the students showed courage, some showed extraordinary self-assurance, and a few showed the poise of gifted high school seniors. One after another they approached the podium with dignity, spoke with attention to detail, and answered our intricate questions with patience and thoroughness. It was a memorable day for me, and, I think, for them. One reason none of us will forget the day anytime soon is that one boy nearly fainted at the podium. He was about halfway into his presentation when he suddenly lost the power of speech and seemed to stiffen before our eyes. It was almost as though he had become paralyzed. I waited perhaps five seconds to see if he would recover, and then I went up to the podium, put my arm around him, and led him out of the room and down the walkway to the nurse’s office. He was pale and trembling as we walked, but he did manage to mumble a few words, which was encouraging. The nurse took him right in, looked him over, and assured me that he would be fine. Relieved, I walked back to the room and we continued the presentations, but not before I had to console a certain girl, who was sobbing over what had just happened. All of the kids are the boy’s friends, but she is his special friend.

ONE YEAR WITH AN ENGLISH TEACHER

Day 113, Monday, March 10, 2008

Today I was proud of myself for living a ‘computer-free’ life with relative composure. My school computer has been out-of-service for a few days, and so I’ve been living without email and all the accouterments and comforts that come with having a computer. Happily, I’ve been able to do it with little or no distress. I guess being without my computer has helped me realize, again, that life is about a whole lot more than a small, white machine. Life is about thinking, feeling, breathing, and loving, and I can certainly do all of those without an Apple iBook.

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My classes went well. I returned the long essays to the 8^th graders, and then we spent the rest of the period going over details for the upcoming presentations on Wednesday and Thursday. There’s a feeling of dread and adventure among the kids, the same kind of feeling you might get waiting in line for a roller coaster ride. I like to put the students in that kind of situation – one which causes both fears and thrills – because out of it often comes the finest and most enduring kind of learning.

ONE YEAR WITH AN ENGLISH TEACHER

Day 112, Friday, March 7

Today the 8^th grade students finished up their 9-paragraph assessment essays, but some of them had to get over one extra and unforeseen hurdle. The 8X class was working assiduously in the computer room, about one paragraph away from the end, when another teacher came and informed me that he had officially signed up to use the room at that time. Luckily, I didn’t get flustered. I simply and quietly told the kids that some adversity had arisen, and that they would be proud of themselves, later, because they handled it so well. I asked them to silently pack up their things, move to the library, and handwrite the rest of the essay. They did so in a dutiful and compliant manner, and before long they were hunched over their papers, laboring away at the conclusion of the essay. Later, when everyone had turned in their paper, I gathered the class together and told them how proud I was of them. I told them I admired the courage they showed in accepting adversity, making the best of it, and moving on. I told them that ‘8X’ kids, from here on, are members of a special club composed of people who bravely carry on no matter what is thrown in their way. I told them I was almost glad they had to leave the computer room because it gave them the opportunity to demonstrate their courage. I was full of pride for these teenagers, and I hope they got that message.

This morning, shortly after I awoke at my usual 4:00 a.m., I was moping around my apartment, berating myself for not getting organized, not getting enough accomplished, not getting any brilliant ideas. I was feeling like a failure already -- someone with no direction, no inspiring thoughts, no special qualities. I was beating up on myself with great ferocity. Fortunately, however, I came to my senses fairly quickly and realized the silliness of my thinking. I realized that, once again, I had fallen into the trap of seeing the universe in the totally wrong way. I was thinking of it as composed of isolated 'me' and a zillion other isolated entities, when in truth it is all one, all unified, all harmonious. There isn't actually a separate 'me' that has to get organized, get things accomplished, and get brilliant ideas. There's only the one infinite ocean of life, of which 'I' am an integral part. I can no more be separately responsible for accomplishing things than a wave can be separately responsible for getting things done in the ocean. The vast ocean, not the individual waves, performs all the work, and the infinite universe, not an isolated 'me', does all the necessary tasks.

As I slowly realized this comforting truth, I relaxed, let go, and started simply watching this miraculous universe carry out its wishes. I saw that, for the rest of the day, I could be a spectator, moment by moment, at an utterly astonishing performance.

ONE YEAR WITH AN ENGLISH TEACHER

Day 110, Wednesday, March 5, 2008

Today I had a morning-long marathon class with the 9th graders before they left for England at noon. For me, it was a dream-come-true situation: three hours with good students and Shakespeare! It was wonderful to know that we had ample time stretching ahead of us -- time in which to loiter along the lines of poetry, probing for beauty and meaning. We took our sweet time, finally finishing the play just before lunch. The students were relatively attentive, especially considering that they must have been extremely keyed up about their trip. Most of them were following the words quite vigilantly, and I often called upon kids who are not usually in the vanguard during our Shakespeare conversations. Beatrice, in particular, seemed markedly focused as I read the lines. When I looked up to ask for an interpretation, I often saw her eager eyes staring right at me and her hand raised (though just barely, in her typically retiring manner). She must have spoken at least five times during the morning, a great triumph for her.

ONE YEAR WITH AN ENGLISH TEACHER

Day 108, March 3, 2008

Today Rosie was the "maitre d'" in her class, and she was utterly dynamic in carrying out her duties. She launched right into leading the discussion on "The White Heron", so much so that I could barely get a word in. She obviously enjoyed herself immensely, and I think her classmates liked her leadership. Certainly anything is a welcome change from listening to Mr. Salsich, but I also think the students respected what Rosie was doing. They saw that she was setting a good example of how to be a good maitre d' -- taking her job seriously, leading the class in a dignified manner, and taking pleasure in what she was doing.

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In the discussion in one of the 8th grade classes, Bobby raised his hand and then asked the class a question about the story being discussed. It was something he was interested in, and he wanted to know what his classmates thought about it. I was pleasantly surprised when he asked the question, because normally a student, when called upon, offers a statement rather than a question. Bobby did something that I want to encourage the students to do more often. After all, we teachers know that good questions are often more important than good answers.

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Later in the same class, it was gratifying to hear Serena say, "I want to connect to something Erin said earlier." We have worked hard this year on making these kinds of links with each other's comments, and it was good to see Serena practicing this important discussion technique.

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In the 9th grade classes, we read over some passages from Great Expectations that the students will be reciting in England, and I was happy to see expressions of attentiveness and interest on the faces of many of the students. They were obviously moved and delighted by hearing these passages that they had read many weeks (and even months) ago.

ONE YEAR WITH AN ENGLISH TEACHER

Day 109, Tuesday, March 4, 2008

Today Nicole did a nice job in her role as maitre d'. She came with a list of questions to ask the class in relation to the story we've been studying, and she ran the discussion with a good amount of authority and poise. I can't help but think it was a beneficial experience for her. To guide a group of 13 peers through a fifteen-minute thought-provoking discussion on a classic work of fiction is no easy task, and Nicole carried it off with aplomb.

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Today I found it possible, for at least part of the time, to teach in a mindful manner. It was as if I was able to distance myself from the teaching and, in a way, observe "Mr. Salsich" and his students, as if I was a spectator in the classroom. It was a refreshing way to teach. I felt no haste, pressure, tension, or frustration, just as I probably wouldn't if I were a spectator at, say, a dance performance. I felt utterly relaxed. The teacher known as 'Mr. Salsich' and his students were carrying on in exactly the perfect way. When a so-called 'mistake' occurred, I quietly reminded myself that a mistake is simply a different way of doing something. No big deal. I just kept ‘watching’.

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At the end of the classes today, I took a full minute to thank the children for doing their best to be attentive. I told them I understood how hard it is to stay focused in class after class, and I appreciated their good efforts. When I was finished, I gave them each a sticker that said "Nice work in English class today" -- and then thanked them one more time.

I need to do this more often. I need to take the time to do this task of great significance -- saying thanks.

A GOOD LIFE

He tied his bright bow tie

with painstaking care,

just as the sun carefully

covered the town with light,

just as cars cautiously

consented to have their doors opened

each morning,

just as his coffee delicately

helped him awaken.

He sat at the table

with toast and raspberry jam

while the clock on the wall

told the time precisely.

ONE YEAR WITH AN ENGLISH TEACHER

Day 107, Friday, February 29

Lily was a star in class today. She had done the reading assignment with great care, and she was obviously proud of that fact. She raised her hand often during class, and when I said it appeared that she had read the story carefully, she smiled and nodded. "Yes," she said, "I did. I really liked this story, and so I tried to take very good notes." She smiled and blushed, and then we went on with the discussion. I was glad to give her the chance to shine. She often seems reserved and detached during class, and I have had the feeling lately that her confidence in English is on the ebb these days. It was good to see her take wing again and be the fine student of reading that she actually is.

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Jaimie, Tommy Johnson, and Jane were wonderful English performers today. Just when I was thinking that the students were floundering and foundering in our study of Shakespeare, these three rose up today like sophisticated students of literature. Jaimie explained for the class the metaphor of 'the traveling lamp', Tommy expounded on another puzzling metaphor, and Jane made an excellent point about the owl, saying that it seemed to symbolize Lady Macbeth. I was reassured and delighted by these intelligent comments.

SHOWS

He rushed home from school

to see a television show,

but he missed the show

of birds in some maple trees

on Locust Street,

and the performance of a few men

making conversation by the coffee shop.

He missed the miracle

of two boys on skateboards

skimming the sidewalk by CVS,

and the sensational lifting and falling

of tree limbs in the park.

The television show was good, though –

a movie made in some distant,

striking location.

My weekend was a quiet one. I felt little else but peacefulness most of the time. Even on my trip to New York to see a play with my daughter and her fiancée, I felt a sense of tranquility that was very comforting. The train hurtled along toward the city, but nothing could disturb the hush of my thoughts.