I must have been around eight years old. I remember that I had recently discovered reading real books, beyond Dick and Jane. Remember, I am an older student. I even wanted to read The Red Pony, by John Steinbeck. My mom told me I would not understand it. I remember reading it. I don't remember if I understood it. Because of the reading, I wanted to write. There was a book in my head about all the things I was doing in my day. It was all I knew. "She walked around the lilac tree on the lawn and there was her sister. She said hello to her." For a while, in my mind, I was a writer.
You are a student in Early Childhood. You are a writer. Your mom, dad, and grandparents have always loved your stories. They believe you are brilliant and one of a kind. They are amazed at your imagination. Last year's teacher loved your writing. She loved your ideas. She was interested in what you had to say every day in your journal. She talked about uppercase letters, punctuation and words you should know how to spell, but she mostly said what great ideas you had. She was enthusiastic to such a degree that you just stared at her, shaking your head. But you felt great. You felt like a writer. This year the teacher is different. She writes all over your page in red ink. She crosses out words and you don't know why. She writes words over your words and you don't know what they say. She says, "Don't use conversation. You don't know how to do it." She says nothing about the heartfelt story you have worked so hard on. She passes the paper back and says rewrite it with the corrections. You hate writing and you'll never do it after you leave this school.
She sat in an ITV classroom, a class of one. The teacher in the television was re-explaining an assignment that the student had already passed in. It was a psychology class. The student had written a piece on a subject she felt passionately about. She felt she might have been a bit preachy. She was bored with the re-explanation and booted up an abandoned computer in the corner. She was very involved in a solitaire game when something the teacher was talking about caught her attention. The teacher was reading her piece! It sounded good! The student threw her hands up and shouted to nobody, "It's mine! She's reading mine!" The teacher finished and said, "That, students, is what I was looking for in this assignment." The student felt like a writer for the first time.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Hey linda--I'm not worried about computer problems. There was a time when I knew more about computers than any of my students, but that was a long time ago. Writing is my game.
ReplyDeleteSo, if a student has some initial trouble with blogger, that's no problem at all. But if a student can't handle the three person part of the assignment or writes a life story instead of a writer's life story or asks how long it's supposed to be, then my heart begins to sink a little.
This had me smiling from the very beginning. I too wanted to read 'Red Pony' and was told I wouldn't understand it and did read it and didn't understand it. I too wrote stories on a par with your round-the-lilac story. Those are genuine writer's moments and stories.
And like you I've dealt with teachers who made me feel ten feet tall and others who made me feel ten inches tall.
And like you I've had teachers read stuff aloud and praise it to the class and the universe. More writer's moments and writer's stories. And a writer doesn't just come on those moments and stories or just remember them--all the sort of thing you're doing here may look simple, but I know it's the fruit of a writerly way of looking, thinking, watching and isn't come by in a day.
You had fun writing this? It came pretty easily? It made sense to you instinctively? Yes, yes, and yes?