I got caught up this morning with my daily reading (from DailyLit.com) of Jane Austen's "Northanger Abbey". It's a typically elegant and disciplined Austen story, filled with sentences constructed by a true craftsperson. Catherine Morland, whom the author describes as the opposite of a heroine, seems to be  falling in love with two people -- an equally unheroic young man (Mr. Tilney) and the elder Miss Thorpe, an enigmatic young lady from a snobbish family. 

This morning I read a short story by Willa Cather, called "Peter". It's one of her earliest stories, but it carries some of the dark realism of her best novels like "My Antonia" and "O Pioneers!" It's the story of a family that emigrated from 'Bohemia' in the 1880's, and especially of the father who was a concert violinist back in the old country. Now his life is filled with misery -- the bleak landscape of Nebraska, the lack of music, and the meanness of his oldest son. His misery is tenderly described by Cather,  ending with his suicide in the sod barn, with his beloved violin in his arms.

Later in the day, I read another early Cather story, "Lou, the Prophet" - a touching tale about a simple, hard-working Dane, transplanted to the wilds of Nebraska, whose solitary corn crop was failing because of drought, and who, driven my a strange madness, became a 'prophet' like the Bible sages. It's a poignant story in its stark plainness. I can see why Cather admired her contemporary short story writer, Sarah Orne Jewett. They both wrote the way a clean pane of glass works -- simply and effortlessly.  

I'm reading Tolstoy's "The Death of Ivan Illych", which is said to be one to the greatest and most profound stories about death. So far it's a fairly slow read; 'not a lot is happening', as my students might say. However, I have a feeling the author is setting the stage for a dramatic final chapter. Reading this story reminds me, again, of the brilliance of Tolstoy's writing. I remember thinking, when I read "War and Peace" many years ago, that his writing is like a clear pane of glass through which life can be seen in utter clarity -- and this story has that same clarity, page after page. I get the feeling that the author is not interested in showing off his writing skills, but in simply telling an important story. 

In the last few days, I read another story by Sarah Orne Jewett, the greatest of all Maine writers. It's called "The Flight of Betsey Lane", and it has the same truthful simplicity that I admire in all her stories. If some writers write like they're building spectacular palaces for all to admire, Jewett writes like she's building small, humble homes somewhere off the beaten path. 

 "Bluebird", oil on mat board, by Mike Beeman 

Teaching Journal

Day 134, April 30, 2009

     Today one of my 9^th grade classes had a Skype video discussion with a school from a long distance away, and later, I got to thinking about the idea of ‘distance’. I used my etymological dictionary, as I often do, and discovered that the word ‘distance’ derives from the Latin for ‘stand apart’. The class that visited us on the screen in my classroom is from a school near Chicago, so they certainly stand apart from us in terms of miles. Aside from a video conference, the only way my scholars and I could visit with this class over such a distance would be by taking a long and expensive flight. However, there’s a positive side to ‘standing apart’, and I think our two schools (Pine Point in Stonington, Connecticut and William Fremd in Palatine, Illinois) were excellent examples of that today. My scholars, I think, felt like they stood apart from other classes and other schools by taking part in such an inventive educational experience, and I imagine the scholars at William Fremd felt the same way. This morning’s video-discussion of a poem made us all feel somewhat special – like we were a distinctive and out-of-the-ordinary group of English students. We felt like we were ‘standing apart’ in elite company – not in a snobbish way, but in a lucky and grateful way.

* * * * *

 

     We held the finals of our April Madness Poetry tournament today, and in some ways, it seemed as stirring as a basketball tournament. 4^th graders through 9^th graders gathered in the gym, gave the readers their attention for nearly 60 minutes, smiled or frowned according to the poem, and screamed or sighed when the winner (“The Little Brother Poem” by Naomi Shihab Nye) was announced. The kids seemed to listen more carefully with each passing poem. They appeared as focused as spectators at a close basketball game. I noticed a conspicuous tension arising as we neared the final round, and there was a serious buzz going around as we began reading the last two poems for the championship. 

Teaching Journal

Day 133, Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Today Mr. Salsich the Blurter came back to my class, for what I hope is his last visit ever. As I was busy taking the scholars through a lesson, I noticed a boy doodling in his notebook, and, with hardly a moment’s thought, I snapped at him. “Billy, sit up and pay attention,” I said, with little civility and a lot of severity. I instantly knew it was a mistake. Yes, the boy was doodling, but he also may well have been listening attentively to what I was saying. By blurting out my reproof in such an ungracious way for an offense that he may not have been guilty of, I succeeded only in bringing guilt on myself. I acted no more maturely than a kid insulting another kid at recess. I was ashamed of my irresponsible action, and within a minute or two, I apologized to the boy. Strangely, something good may have come from my reckless behavior. Because it happened in front of a class, and because the scholars heard my apology, perhaps they’ll understand better the simple fact that teachers can sometimes act like children. More importantly, they might come to a realization that a sincere apology can be a strong and dignified thing to do – that admitting your mistake (and making no excuses about it) is one way to grow and get strong as a person.

* * * * * * *

The scholars seemed exceptionally sleepy and apathetic in the morning classes. It was almost as if they had all made a vow of silence before the class, or as if a sleeping gas had been spread among the kids. Heads were sagging and eyes were slowly shutting. My questions were met with a stone wall of silence, and any interest I succeeded in stirring up instantly settled back down the way dust does. Ho-hum.

Teaching Journal

Day 131, Monday, April 27, 2009

 

     TS Today I overheard someone say (not very nicely) to someone, “Hey, think your own thoughts”, and it reminded me of something I‘ve been realizing recently – that we can’t actually think our “own” thoughts. SD Every idea that comes to us comes from a multitude of sources, and therefore each of these sources has some share in the ownership of the idea. CM Any thought that I call “my idea” actually originates somewhere outside of me – in a book, a conversation, a song, a movie, or any of an infinite number of sources. CM I simply borrow ideas from different sources and somehow they blend together to make other ideas that I sometimes proudly refer to as “my own”. CM They’re not my own any more than the air I breathe is my own. CM I borrow air for a few moments and then pass it on, and I borrow and give away ideas in a similar way. SD I see this communal sharing of ideas in my classroom every day, and I should remind my scholars of it occasionally. CM Each day we loan ideas to each other in our discussions. CM It’s as if we say to each other, “Here’s an idea I borrowed from a conversation last night. I’ve taken what I need from it, and perhaps you could make some use of it now.” CM The ideas came to us from somewhere else and now, in English class, we pass them along to somewhere else. CS Ideas are now our “own” – never have been and never will be – and my scholars and I need to remind ourselves of that now and then.   

Today I read the third 'installment' of Jane Austen's Northanger Abbey. I'm reading it online, courtesy of dailylit.com, a website that will send readers daily 5-minute installments of thousands of novels. This was recommended to me by a former student, who has a busy school life and finds it handy to take five minutes each day to read the prepared installment. So far so good. Austen's novel has the style, grace, and wisdom that I expect from her, and I've already developed an interest in the Morland family and their daughter, Catherine. I look forward to the next installment, which will be arriving by email at 5:00 a.m. tomorrow. 

..............

I finished Joseph Conrad's novella, Youth, today and found it filled with elegant and forceful sentences, as well as countless wise reflections on the meaning of life.  It's a story of the strength, idealism, and resilience of youth, as exemplified by this quote: "Oh the glamour of youth! Oh the fire of it, more dazzling than the flames of the burning ship, throwing a magic light on the wide earth, leaping audaciously to the sky, presently to be quenched by time, more cruel, more pitiless, more bitter than the sea--and like the flames of the burning ship surrounded by an impenetrable night."

Today I read an excellent story by the vastly under-appreciated Sarah Orne Jewett. The story, an unpretentious one called "Decoration Day", tells of three old Civil War veterans who organize a last-minute parade for Decoration Day (Memorial Day, as we call it) in their small Maine town. Typical of her writing, Jewett tells the plain, homespun story with descriptions that are both simple and spectacular.  She writes plainly but deeply, unassumingly but strongly. A tear almost came to my over a few lovely sentences. 

A LETTER TO A FORMER STUDENT 

WORKING IN THE PEACE CORPS IN AFRICA

Dear Elizabeth,

Greetings from a teacher who is very proud of you! I just read your beautifully written article in Viewpoints, and it all brought a few tears to my eyes. You are such a good person. Of course, I knew that when you were my student, but the article just brought it all back to me -- your kindness, your sensitivity to everything, your utter dignity (including when you played the violin). Your article was the best I've read in Viewpoints for some time -- and others agree with me. It has clarity, sincerity, and grace -- and excellent writing needs no other qualities. 

It brought to mind the countless splendid papers you wrote in English class, but more importantly, it brought to mind again your simple and strong goodness. It makes me very proud -- honored -- to have once been one of your teachers.

All is well here. I am actually loving my teaching more than ever (and happy to have you, now, as a colleague in this grandest of all professions). This has been one of my best years ever as a teacher. After 40+ years in the classroom, I am finally understanding some important truths -- like the fact that I truly don't know much about the mysteries 

involved in trying to teach other human beings. To me, it's total rocket science. Back when I was a third-rate teacher (and, honestly, that would include when I was your teacher -- and don't try to tell me otherwise, because I know) I thought I knew all there is to know about teaching; now I know that I know almost nothing about it, and so I'm becoming a better teacher. It's a joyous process. Among other discoveries, I've found technology, which is opening wonderful new doors, but I'm also discovering simple and ancient truths, one by one. I have a long, long way to go. 

I will keep you in my mind and heart, Elizabeth (or Liz, as you perhaps like to be called). I am with you in spirit as you continue the work of a warrior. 

Fondly, 

Mr. Salsich

"Apple Slice", oil on masonite, by Jeff Mahorney

Teaching Journal

Day 129, Thursday, April 23, 2009

 

     For a long time I’ve known that scholars learn better, and teachers teach better, when they’re happy, and that truth came home to me again today. I hope that there is always a relaxed and cheerful feeling in my classes, but today there seemed to be an extra amount of jollity in the room. The kids were dignified and attentive, as I insist they be, but they were also full of delight. There were bursts of giggles now and then about something in the lesson, and even I got caught up in some harmless folly now and then. For instance, I got sidetracked (which almost never happens to me) and told an utterly ridiculous and irrelevant story about something that happened years ago. I also joked around with the scholars more than I usually do, probably wasting some precious time in the process, but also probably making it a bit easier for the kids to relax and take in what I was trying to teach them. What was the cause of this unusual cheeriness? Was it the feel of spring in the air? Was it the fact that the happiest day of the school year – Grandparents’ Day – is tomorrow? Or was it just our natural joyfulness impulsively bursting forth? Who knows? What is certain is that it was a day of pure exuberance – and fairly good teaching and learning. 

I just finished Joseph Conrad's "Typhoon", an excellent tale that brings the reader onto a steamer in the China Sea in the 1880's during a hurricane. I have never read such a vivid description of the effects of a violent storm on a ship. Conrad portrays in minute detail the pitching and rolling of the ship, the pounding of the swells and waves, and the battering the inside of the ship took during the storm. Of course, beyond all that is the description of the intrepid and stoical Captain MacWhirr, who, precisely because he has no "imagination" (by which the author means no ability to get bogged down thinking about the past or future) is able to totally focus on dealing with the immediate presence of the storm and in that way bring his ship through to port. I liked the way Conrad ended the story, by going back to the mainland home of the Captain's family and getting his wife's impression of MacWhirr's survival (not especially loving), and then by getting the full story of what happened at the end of the storm from first mate Jukes after reaching port. 

"Best Friends Forever", oil on linen, by Roxanne Steed

Teaching Journal

Day 128, April 22, 2009

 

     Just before class started, I overheard a girl saying that she had done almost no homework the last two nights because she was reading a good book and “just couldn’t put it down.” Her statement created mixed feelings in me. On the one hand, I worried about how her teachers would react when she failed to hand in homework, but also, a surprisingly strong feeling arose that said the teachers should understand and forgive. Assuming it was a rich and worthwhile book, I almost admired her. It almost seemed like she had made the exact right choice in sacrificing homework for a powerful book. Yes, she will have to suffer the natural penalties that come with  missed homework assignments, and it would not be judicious of her to do this on a regular basis, but is it possible that she gained more wisdom from her book than the assignments might have given her? In an institution of learning, can we be lenient toward a scholar who spends a few nights learning truths from a novel?   

"Monday", oil on board, by Rob Ijbema

Teaching Journal

Day 127, April 21, 2009

 

     It occurred to me today that sitting in a chair might be a better way for me to teach, at least generally, than standing. That realization came at a moment when I was standing at the round table and looking down at the scholars. It suddenly seemed silly to me that I was towering above them. It made no sense, the way a person standing on a stepladder in a crowd makes no sense. I felt completely out of place, and – more importantly – out of touch with the scholars. As soon as I could, I grabbed a chair and sat down among the kids, and I instantly felt less like an alien and more like a comfortable fellow learner. Sitting with them, I was more of a companion in the study of literature than a distant and mystifying lecturer. Of course, I am not a 14-year-old student, nor am I a "friend" of the students. I am their teacher, and there needs to be a professional distance between scholars and their teacher. However, today I came to understand that this professional distance doesn’t need to involve looming above the class like a strange giant. I can be a leader and guide for my scholars just as well – probably better – by sitting among them than by standing detached and distant.     

"Blue Sky Fishing Shack", oil on canvas, by Elizabeth Fraser

Teaching Journal

Day 126, April 20, 2009

 

     This morning I fell into a suspicious and distrustful attitude during one of the 9^th grade classes, and it’s disappointing to realize that I’m still capable of descending to that level of silliness. For some reason, I began feeling that certain kids in the class were ‘misbehaving’. I noticed one or two whispering together, and occasionally there was a soft outbreak of giggles while I was going through the lesson. I’m not sure why, but I fixated on those scattered, inconsequential trifles, and before long I was thinking like a police detective: Who is going to misbehave next? Who is going to be caught by Detective Salsich? Looking back, it appears that this attitude hung around me like a cloud for most of the class. I was covered in a cloak of suspicion, rather like Sherlock Holmes himself. I’m afraid I was much more a police officer than a teacher. Well, there’s no reasonable point in scolding myself about it; instead, I should put on my ‘scholar’ hat and learn something from it. I should remind myself that teaching is about being open-minded and trusting, not myopic and skeptical. I should re-study the great teachers of the past who knew that scholars learn best from those who trust them.   

"Casco Bay Afternoon", oil on panel, by Cooper Dragonette

Teaching Journal

Day 125, Friday, April 17, 2009

 

 

     After learning three important lessons about teaching yesterday, I learned an equally helpful one today. Before school, after reading the essays my 9^th grade scholars had posted on their blogs last night and noticing countless careless mistakes, I made a snap decision to discard my planned lesson for the day and set the kids to polishing these essays. At the start of each class, we went directly to the computer lab, where the students worked in small groups to clean up the mistakes in their papers, and, as I watched, I grew increasingly impressed with what was happening. The kids were utterly focused on helping each other, and the suggestions they made were pointed and helpful. They sat around computer screens, leaning in to read their friends’ writing and offer comments. They studied each other’s sentences with care and sensitivity. There was little inattentiveness or foolishness; they seemed to know they had a serious job to do. As I moved among the groups and observed them, I realized that some very exciting teaching and learning was happening. The scholars were being teachers – good ones – and because of that, they were being better students of writing. I realized, before too many minutes had passed, that this type of teaching and learning should be happening often in my classroom. It was a good Friday lesson for me to take home for the weekend.   

"Early Spring Rooftops", oil on panel, b y Cooper Dragonette

Teaching Journal

Day 124, Thursday, April 16, 2009

 

     Today was a lucky day for me: I made three beneficial mistakes.

     First, I broke a class routine that’s been consistent and strong since the first week of September. Instead of starting class with silent reading and refreshments (ice water and one animal cracker apiece), I decided to move immediately into the lesson. The kids came in and, instead of quietly settling into their English studies with a small pick-me-up and a few pages from a good book (as they had for the last 123 days of school) they were confronted with a totally different way of beginning class. They must have felt like, “Wait, am I in the right class?” A break in a productive routine can be a major shock, a truth I forgot when I thoughtlessly yanked the kids off in a new direction today. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I also pushed them into the day’s lesson too quickly. Instead of gradually and gently leading into it – instead of generating interest and setting out a clear roadmap for the lesson, I simply started running with it, and the scholars, unsurprisingly, weren’t able to follow. In my excitement about the activities I had planned, I forgot to get the class excited too. I plunged in and left the scholars far behind, off course and thoroughly befuddled. The final useful mistake today was my internal defensiveness and self-pity when my supposedly exciting lesson fell flat on its face. As I was blah-blahing about a topic I thought the kids would find interesting, maybe even electrifying, all I could see on their faces was bewilderment and ennui – and it was a hard blow to my ego. I felt more and more sorry for myself as the minutes stumbled along, and by the end of the class I was sure I was the worst teacher in southeastern Connecticut. “Poor me,” I thought. “Is there any teacher more deserving of pity than poor me?” Instead of realizing that there can’t always be sunshine outside, or good news from the stock market, or a good night’s sleep, or a perfectly cooked meal, or a thoroughly successful English lesson, I acted like an overemotional adolescent. Instead of bravely accepting my bad teaching with as much willingness and dignity as I accept my good days in the classroom, I moped and pouted and patted my poor self on the back.

     These were serious mistakes, but, as I suggested earlier, they were also beneficial ones. These three mistakes taught me three lessons, showed me three new ways to improve my teaching, brought me three good gifts. The way I learn best is by studying my mistakes, and today gave me some splendid material for study. It was, indeed, a lucky day for this old teacher.   

"Poppy Field", acrylic, by Parastoo Ganjel

Teaching Journal

Day 123, Wednesday, April 15, 2009

 

     This morning I realized, once again, how fortunate I am to be teaching such trustworthy scholars. In the middle of a class, the kids needed to get something from their lockers to use in the lesson, and when I asked them to go to their lockers quietly and return quietly, they did exactly that. I stood in the classroom with the door open and could hear almost nothing down the hall – just the quiet brushing of shoes on the floor, the careful closing of locker doors, and perhaps some scattered whispers. I must confess that I was fully expecting to hear typical teenage prattle and clamor, but no, the hall was hushed. When the scholars had assembled back in the room (quite quickly, I would add), I paused in the lesson to thank them for their dependability. I said I feel fortunate to be teaching such reliable people – and I do.

. . . . .

      Our poem for this week in the 9^th grade classes is about an onion -- how “small and forgotten” it is in a stew, how it “disappears for the sake of others” – and it started me thinking about teaching. I guess I want to be like an onion in the “stew” of my classroom. Like the onion in a stew, I want to add zest to my scholars’ learning, but I want to do it by simmering in the background, or underneath, hidden away from the choice delicacies of the stew – my students. Only by being cooked and made soft and translucent and almost transparent can an onion do its job in the stew, and only in a similar manner can I do my job in the classroom. The onion almost vanishes for the good of the stew, and I should be willing to do the same for the sake of the scholars. If visitors stop in, they should be immediately impressed with the work of the scholars, not the teacher. If I’m really doing my job, they might not even notice me at all, just like an onion lost in a tasty stew.   

"Spring in Wales", acrylic, by Rob Ibjema

Teaching Journal

Day 122, Monday, April 13, 2009

 

     During a lesson on vocabulary this morning, the teacher’s assistant (a scholar who helps me conduct the lesson) asked the kids to work in pairs on some word exercises in the book, and, as I watched, I was impressed with how well the scholars collaborated. A spirit of teamwork was evident around the room. I heard some scattered laughter and a burst of silliness now and then, but generally, the students seemed serious about helping each other reach the assigned goal. For the most part, their heads were bent together, trying their best to discover the answers. They were a collection of partnerships devoted to a common task, a group of teams toiling together in a spirit of friendship and responsibility. It was good for me to see this. I was glad I was able to sit back and actually notice how well kids can learn when they are relaxed and happy together. My classes tend to be teacher-centered rather than student-centered, but it was helpful to see the possibilities in allowing the kids to run their own discussions and formulate their own approaches to an activity. It gave me a new and more expansive glimpse of this far-flung enterprise called “teaching teenagers”. 

Naming a Part of the Breeze

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�ne-ness, Never Two-ness

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"Mission Benches", oil, by Susan Cox

Teaching Journal
Day 121, Thursday, April 9, 2009

One of the genuine successes for me this year is the routine of note taking I’ve established. Strangely, in all the years of my teaching, I’ve paid little attention to that skill, and have never required the scholars to regularly take notes. However, this past summer I decided to make note taking a regular feature of English class – and it’s been a beneficial change. Each day at the start of class the scholars routinely open their notebooks and almost immediately begin taking notes, jotting down large and small items they think might be on the weekly Friday quiz. It’s become a habit, and a good one – something they customarily do just the way college scholars do. If visitors would stop in, they would see the children either writing in their notebooks or looking at me (in between gazing out the window at the early birds of spring). It’s an excellent routine – a new and worthwhile addition to 8th and 9th grade English.

Teaching with True Authority

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"Two Russians", oil on board, by Edward B. Gordon

Teaching Journal
Day 120

Today I noticed, for the first time in a long while, how easily my young scholars can become distracted. As I taught a lesson to one of the 8th grade classes, I walked around the room, paying particular attention to their level of alertness, and I was dismayed by what I saw. I was disappointed to see the kids gazing out the window, up at the ceiling, at their friends, out the door, but only occasionally at me. Their postures were good (because I insist on it), so they might have appeared to be listening carefully, but their eyes told a different tale. As I moved around the room presenting what I thought would be an engaging lesson, I was saddened to see that the scholars, in general, were far more interested in what the birds were doing in the trees outside than in what I was saying. It was a bit of a shock, I guess, but a good shock nonetheless. It opened my eyes to what it’s really like to be a kid in English class – a kid who has already, perhaps, sat through four earlier classes where the teacher thought he was presenting an appealing lesson. It was a surprise to me to see how indifferent and unresponsive many of the kids seemed, and it was a lesson for the future. It showed me that I need to get out from behind my desk more often and experience my class the way my scholars do. I need to see what it's like to listen to tedious words while watching, through the window, small birds in a blossoming tree.

Floating on the Present Moment River

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"Cherry Blossoms in Silvery Light", oil on canvas, by Roxanne Steed

Teaching Journal

Day 119, April 7, 2009

 For some reason, a refreshing feeling of assurance stayed with me through most of my classes today. Somehow I felt confident that everything was happening the way it was supposed to – that I didn’t have to do my usual fretting and fussing about how the lessons were going. I had a feeling of security, as if no words or behavior could possibly be out of place or imperil the peace of the classroom. I’m not sure where this feeling came from. (I’m never sure where ANY of my feelings come from.) Perhaps it arose because of some meditative reading I did this morning, or because of an especially nourishing breakfast, or because of the typically supportive spirit of my scholars, or simply because it was an hospitable, spring-like day. Wherever the feeling came from, it was much esteemed by this sometimes anxious and hesitant teacher. 

"Color Study for Savannah Cafe", oil on canvas by Kay Crain

Teaching Journal
Day 118, Monday, April 6, 2009

One of the Teacher’s Assistants today was especially impressive. (These are scholars who help me with some parts of the lesson.) He spoke with a quiet dignity that is rare even among seasoned adult teachers. His voice was soft yet strong, and I didn’t notice any instances of nervousness or hesitancy. There was calmness in his words, and assurance, and utter poise. It was inspiring to watch him work. It was especially notable that he complimented almost every scholar who spoke. He said, “Thanks, Lily” or “Good answer, Zoe” or “Nice job” – not in a fake way, but with a tone of genuine appreciation. In a strange way, his performance as an assistant was inspiring to me. I’ve been in a classroom for 40+ years, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be stirred by the distinguished work of a young apprentice. I’m crossing my fingers that this boy is destined for a classroom of his own some time in the future.
. . . . .
I was tempted to interrupt one of the TA’s today, but fortunately I resisted it and kept my mouth shut. I guess that’s one of the lessons I’ve taken most to heart over my many years of teaching – that what a teacher doesn’t say is just as important as what he does say. We teachers often over-emphasize the importance of our lessons and lectures, forgetting that our silence can be just as illuminating as our speech. I have always tried to fill up class time with as many helpful words as possible, but I’m now trying to balance all those thousands of words with the quiet weight of my own unassuming stillness.

Possessed by Fear

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Teaching Journal
Day 117, Friday, April 3, 2009

It was a quiet day in English class, but that doesn’t necessarily mean nothing was happening. It was quiet in the sense that the activities themselves were quiet ones – silent reading at the start, then soft-spoken discussions about some poems, then muted goodbyes and thank you’s. There were no loud goings-on, nothing that was particularly entertaining or compelling. If people in the hall had passed my classroom, they might have wondered why there wasn’t more excitement in the room. Strangely, however, I did sense some excitement among the scholars during class. It wasn’t noisy excitement, or even especially noticeable. It was just the hushed, almost insubstantial excitement of good thinking and feeling. They weren’t jumping around with enthusiasm, but, sitting quietly in their chairs, they were listening to the poems, and considering them, at least to a degree. Their thoughts and feelings were not flashy, just simple and sincere. There was quietness, yes, but there was also, I suspect, some solid learning. 

"Lamplight", oil on canvas board, by Mike Rooney

Teaching Journal
Day 116, Thursday, April 2, 2009

In the midst of teaching a lesson that seems doomed to failure, it’s comforting to realize that countless other events occurring at the same time are destined for nothing but success. While I was wondering this morning why a 9th grade English class seemed to be going nowhere, the blood inside my body was going everywhere it needed to go, and doing it with total effortlessness and efficiency. While my lesson appeared to be falling flat on its face, the oxygen in the room was fluidly and perfectly flowing into my scholars’ lungs, and rain was falling among the trees outside with absolute accuracy. Despite the obvious malfunction of my teaching strategies, all was flawless in the rotating of the planet and the spinning of the stars. The universe was taking faultless care of itself, even if I seemed to be a dreary dud as a teacher.

It is, indeed, an encouraging thought.

* * * * *

I made what I consider to be a serious mistake last night in my college class – the kind of mistake I thought I had put behind me forever. I called on one of the students, and before he had spoken two sentences, I interrupted him in a discourteous fashion and made a negative comment about what he had said. Instead of allowing him to develop and finish his thought, I rudely closed the door on him in order to make my own point. Instead of listening and then responding to his statement, I immediately shut my mind down and simply reacted to it. It was the kind of immature, brash behavior that I abhor in a teacher, and I’m appalled to think that I engaged in it. I acted like a rookie teacher instead of one with decades of experience, and I’m justifiably beating myself up about it. I don’t intend to let it happen again anytime soon.

"March Clouds", oil on canvas, by Jeffrey J. Boron

Teaching Journal
Day 115, Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Lately, I’ve been reading short stories by Katherine Mansfield, and in many of them the protagonist is able to step back, observe her life as from afar, and then laugh at it – something I need to do more of, especially as regards my teaching. I often get way to involved in the “drama” of my work. I regularly get lost in the plot that involves “Mr. Salsich the brave teacher and protagonist” who wages valiant war against the many antagonists that rise up to impede his work -- curriculum, time, even the scholars! It’s so easy, I find, to actually believe the story line – to really think that I am the main character in this drama, and that it’s up to me to make it an overall success. What I need to do more often is what Mansfield’s protagonists are able to do – step back and get the big picture. If I can do that – if I can imagine myself looking down from far away upon this tiny classroom in the middle of this endless universe – I would see my work in its true perspective. I would see that what I’m doing is no more or less important than what the wind is doing outside my windows, or what the maintenance man is doing as he carries a wastebasket down the hall. The worker, the wind, and I are all part of a grand extravaganza that has no protagonists and no antagonists – just on-going present moments that are each, in their own way, perfect. If I could occasionally step back from my teaching like that, I would feel more relaxed about it, more confident that each “performance” –- each class -- will, in one way or another, be beautiful. I might even, like the characters in Mansfield’s stories, have a good laugh over the whole thing.

* * * * *

It often occurs to me that I need to be more “curious” about my teaching. I need to be more like a scientist who, observing some natural phenomenon, might say, “Hmmm, that’s curious.” Like the scientist who watches the way things happen because she’s curious as to how and why they happen, I need to watch my own teaching and wonder how and why things happen in my teaching the way they do. Remembering a day’s work in the classroom, I should carefully relive what happened, out of sheer curiosity. “Why did I do that?”, I might ask, just as a chemist might question why two liquids interacted in a certain why. “Where did that idea come from?” would be another question, and “It’s so interesting that I said THAT to the girl! What caused me to do that?” If I could treat my teaching sort of like a natural phenomenon -- perhaps a vast and mysterious valley in the mountains – I might be able to recognize the strangeness, the oddness, even the pure nuttiness of what I do. Like an eager scientist, I could wake up each morning with excitement, wondering what curious behaviors Mr. Salsich will exhibit in his teaching today.