I love teaching and I love writing about it, but it's a challenging duality. The biggest challenge is directing my creativity.  My mind is constantly chasing the next creative endeavor.  When I am really in the groove with teaching, my creativity is always in relation to my classroom, my students, and sometimes my teaching team or a school-wide project. 

Any of those ideas can become material for writing, but writing itself needs some space of its own. Like Virginia Woolf argued in A Room of One's Own--a woman cannot be expected to write while she's cooking and taking care of children in a confined space.  Her writing will suffer.  I always hated that point, thinking it was narrowminded, but there was some truth to it.  One needs mental space to bring the ideas out of the working memory and onto the paper. Space to focus on putting the words together. That process requires as much brain-power as creating materials for a lesson or a new seating plan.  It is difficult to occupy both of those thought spaces at once. 

The work of teaching never ends.  Does writing about teaching help me teach better?  And should that matter?  Teachers need to be able to articulate what they are doing in the classroom, why, and how it's working. The National Board Certification Process is based on this kind of reflection.  So yes, writing promotes reflection, which has value for my teaching.  

Also, as a professional, in the still semi-profession that is teaching, it's also important to me to be a part of a dialogue about the work we do and the policies that comment on and affect aspects of teaching. I wish this last part wasn't true. I'm stubborn and don't like to admit that we teachers are usually seen as second class professionals without valuable ideas and valid career goals. The act of participating in dialogue about teaching does make us more professional, but the fact that we must insert our voices into an environment that is so often hostile toward teachers gives the conversation a bitter tinge-- as well as the overwhelming feeling that this conversation too, never ends. 

Finally, as an English teacher, the opportunity to write professionally for a real audience allows me to speak from experience when I teach writing. There are so many benefits to this. One pretty tangible one is that I have lots of first hand experience with all steps of the writing  process, especially revision, which can be hard for kids to understand.  My writing experience has really helped me to be able to teach students to write nonfiction beyond the 5 paragraph essay and to articulate my reasons for this choice.

[image credit: emich.edu]

This is gonna be quick.  Is it just me, or is it starting to seem silly to teach paragraph indentation when no one uses it anymore? Think about the last time you indented a paragraph. Was it in the last 5 years? Emails, blogs, and news articles are usually written in business letter format, skipping a space between paragraphs. It looks better and reads easier than indenting.  I think indenting was probably once better than skipping a line because it saved paper. But guess what? Nobody uses paper anymore!

Anyway, I'm going to keep teaching the indented paragraph, but I think soon the conversation about leaving a line between paragraphs and the change that seems to be happening with formatting would be appropriate.  English teachers--is it just me?!

 After all that preparation, we finally took a leap of faith and went out into the neighborhood to conduct our original surveys on issues of interest the students had identified relating to Crown Heights.  These included businesses, education, racism, violence, opportunities, religion, the future of Crown Heights, languages, and more.  As I explained in my last post, there was much nervousness from students, and a little for myself, I admit.  A number of eighth graders claimed they were not going to survey anyone, for fear that they would be received poorly by strangers, and that conflict could arise from the interaction.  That was not how it turned out though.  It went GREAT.  Better than great, it was transformative.

After the first brave student timidly went up to a stranger asking for them to participate in their survey on an issue in Crown Heights, it was like open season, surveying people on the street.  Most participants happily spent a few minutes with our enthusiastic and polite students, wearing their school uniforms and holding clip boards and pencils.  A few strangers were hurrying somewhere and were apologetic when they declined to participate.  And just one or two people were a little gruff when they said no.  My students took it in stride and did not waste a moment moving onto the next person.  

Despite the initial nervousness, my biggest problem on the trip was getting students to realize that if they RAN up to a stranger, trying to beat out their classmates, the person might be a little taken aback!  Take your time!  Be aware of how you look from the outside!  Those were classic middle school teachable moments ;)

By far the most stunning experiences of the day were the real conversations my students got to have with adults from their community about their community.  For example, student got to ask members of their community whether Crown Heights could ever be a non violent neighborhood, and why, and what it would take to make that happen.  They got to ask adults if they believed there was still racism in the area, and if so, how did it manifest?  They heard many adults' perspectives on the purpose and value of an education.  

There was something so immediate, gratifying and hopeful about these interactions.  Kids got to be investigators, got their questions taken seriously, and listened intensely to their elders.  This in contrast to that classic role of teenagers being somewhat of a nuisance to adults on the streets, or alternatively, being pent up inside their homes, because of their or their parents' fears that the streets are too dangerous. 

I repeated this trip 3 times, with three different classes.  Each time as we made our way back to the school, kids skipped up to me and said, "This trip was the BEST!  Can we do it again?!"  Throughout the year students have randomly said, "Remember the Crown Heights trip? We should do more stuff like that."  

Afterwards, students tabulated the results of the surveys and had real original data to respond to in their articles.  Individually, for homework, students also conducted in depth interviews of adults in the community on their topics.  We held discussions in class, and finally students wrote their articles.

But the trip itself holds a special place in my memory that I can't shake. Ever since, I have been thinking about what made it so special.  It was one of those teaching experiences where time stops and everyone involved experiences a kind of flow of genuine curiosity and realization of our own efficacy as human beings and learners.  One thing I have come up with is that in this study, there was no glossing over of the harsh realities to which so many children in this neighborhood are exposed at too young an age.  

So often in school, kids are asked to put all of that aside to "learn."  I'm all for exposing students to new ideas and experiences, but what's to say that we can't guide our students to learn from familiar content as well? Isn't learning a universal process of observation, experience, reflection, asking questions, investigating, and creating? On the flip side, sometimes, in effort to connect to kids' lives, teachers may bombard their students with depressing texts that depict the realities of "the ghetto" in a way that does not bring new light to the situation. I've seen kids respond to these texts glumly and react out of boredom or frustration.   

In the Crown Heights study, [an adolescent version of the neighborhood study progressive elementary schools have been doing for decades, and which Bank Street College became famous for training teachers to implement--see Bank Street Founder, Lucy Sprague Mitchell's book, Young Geographers for more on where this comes from and how to do it], we look at the realities of a neighborhood in an active way through an academic lens.   Kids investigate their own questions--which is also in contrast to the "Essential Questions" that teachers often devise for their classes.  

I must say, this study was one of the most challenging endeavors I have attempted in my teaching career so far, on both an organizational and emotional level.  But I will remember it a defining moment of my teaching career, on which I will continue to build in years to come.  

Early this year, after giving the first major writing assignment, I noticed that my 8th grade
students were having trouble expressing their thoughts in writing.  In discussions, they showed unusual
thoughtfulness and an ability to respond critically to one another’s ideas.  When it came to writing, they were not
afraid to put pen to paper and get started, as some of my former students have
been.  Most were surprisingly
comfortable banging out a paragraph (or three) on a topic.  At first I was pleased.  They appeared to have greater fluency in writing than some of my former classes of students. 

Then I read the work. 
My students’ voices were completely different in writing than they were
in class discussions.  The
thoughtfulness I’d come to expect and enjoy from their spoken words seemed to
fade behind muddled sentences that did not flow, contradicted one another, and
ultimately communicated very little substance.  I felt like a doctor who’d just opened up a healthy-looking
patient for a routine surgery and found something completely unexpected.  What was going on?

After careful assessment of my students’ writing and some
interesting conversations with them about it, I think I know what's been ailing them.  They had not thought of writing as something that starts in the mind and is an
extension of their thoughts and spoken voices, a tool to communicate ideas to
others.  Instead, writing for most of my students had felt more like some alien language that comes out of a pen when the teacher asks
for it!

I needed to help the students connect what they think and
say with the act of writing.  I applied a method I call Writing Outloud, in which students in speaking in front of the class on a topic, off the cuff, and then write about what they say, or respond in writing to what another
student says.  They turn these
ideas into paragraphs, and elaborate on them, both through speaking and in subsequent paragraphs.  Then we identify the big idea that each
student has focused on and thinks is significant; we shape
essays around these big ideas.

I now have complete drafts in front of me, and I am happy,
because they are substantive. 
Students are writing from real thoughts, experiences, and beliefs about
important, relevant topics. 

But there is still much work to be done, and I’m not
comfortable simply commenting on the drafts, correcting errors, and asking
students to rewrite, (though they expect this).  I need to teach them to revise.  To do this authentically, students and I are going to need
to think a little more carefully about audience and purpose.  I want them to stop thinking of me as the audience.  Who would they really like to reach in this piece, and how
might they adjust their writing to do it better? 

The problem with authentic revision is that it’s going to take us away from formulaic writing.  What’s wrong with that, you might
ask?  Nothing, except that everything I’ve learned over the years about the standardized test my students
will take in mid-January tells me they need to be able to follow a strict, dry, five
paragraph essay formula to do well on it. 

Who is the audience for the essays my students must write on
the statewide ELA test?  What is
the message they need to communicate to that audience?  The message is a superficial one that
has nothing to do with the content of what they are writing, and everything to
do with proving they can answer a question in a prescribed format.

This sounds startlingly similar to the initial problem I had
with my students’ writing.  Their words were superficial and lacked voice and substance.  They were constantly looking for a right answer from the
teacher, and if one wasn’t presented, they were trained to make it up and
package it neatly in paragraphs. It was very hard for them to write clearly and
compellingly, because they were not actually writing to communicate. 

I’m stuck at that familiar crossroads where I'm sure many other teachers in this country find themselves throughout the year.  Teach for the child or teach for the test?  If I dismiss my own professional
judgment of what my students need and simply teach the test’s formulas, are they really guaranteed to perform better? 
What exactly do they gain from the difference?

It’s November 11, and I’m going to invest some time in
developing my students as real writers, because I just can’t see the logic in
anything else. Some people have said good teaching is good teaching, and the
scores will follow.  I’m not so
sure, but I’m willing to take the risk. 
Will let you know how it works out.  

[image found at http://images.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://cassandrapages.typepad.com/the_cassandra_pages/images/2007/07/10/crossroads.jpg&imgrefurl=http://cassandrapages.typepad.com/the_cassandra_pages/2007/07/crossroads.html&h=375&w=500&sz=45&hl=en&start=55&usg=__rMOJjEx6C-njoxyM0awFVLEr5D8=&tbnid=6K7aU9sFSseiPM:&tbnh=98&tbnw=130&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dcrossroads%26start%3D40%26gbv%3D2%26ndsp%3D20%26hl%3Den%26sa%3DN]]