Two days is a fair trade for the amount of empowerment and focus I gained by attending the “Raising Our Voices/Telling Our Stories: From Anecdote to Action. Fifteen of us set around tables arranged into a horseshoe. We had only to look up from our iPads and laptops to see the passion and the hope in our collective eyes around the room. This is the best way to spend a couple of days in late July, if you ask me.
1 Comment
Today began the two-day workshop entitled “Telling Our Stories/Raising Our Voices: from Anecdote to Action.” On Eastern Michigan University’s picturesque campus, Cathy Fleischer is leading the workshop. We are a group with varied backgrounds and similar passions. Each of us want to tell our story as educators in order combat the negative narrative that currently exists in the media about education, teachers and students. We want to work on framing our stories in such a way as to become agents in changing a negative story to a positive one. We want to garner respect and trust in our nation’s teachers. We want to show students that they can succeed. Together our stories are taking form. Together we can affect change by raising our voices and telling our stories. “Sometimes doing something very small can make a big difference.” - Cathy Fleischer Today’s workshop time taught me quite a bit (it stretched my brain). Cathy’s golden line (quoted above) showed me that I can start small and not get bogged down with taking on too much right away. Small steps can begin authentic change just as well as large steps. I like knowing that I can start small and gain momentum. Affecting change feels more manageable when I know I can start now, today, with a small idea for a better tomorrow. To begin, we each wrote a positive teacher story set in our classrooms. Then we shared those stories. We found evidence in each of our stories of values that we hold dear. We looked across these values and noticed themes that stood out. Then, we shared those too. Noticing a pattern yet? By getting us to share our stories on the first day, Cathy was working us into a safe and vibrant learning community. She had us share and had us listen. We did the very important work of teachers telling a new story of the positive things we know we are doing for kids in our classrooms. Another thing we learned today was how to frame the stories that show life in our classrooms into narratives that can help others see our vision and know our hearts. We went through an e-workshop on how to most effectively frame our stories for a broader audience (http://sfa.frameworksinstitute.org/). I enjoyed clicking through this presentation at my own speed; and, since I didn’t finish at the same time as everyone else, I am glad to be able to finish at home this evening. This workshop is not only getting me to tell my story, it is helping me garner resources that will enrich my teaching for years to come. After thinking of how we could best frame our narratives for a larger audience, we thought of metaphors that could represent our stories in order to capture the imaginations of parents, administrators, and legislators. We discussed with whom we may want to share our stories and were reminded that positive messages go farther than negatively-framed ones. Isn’t that the tricky task of our profession? We are given the job of taking a negative narrative, reeking of disrespect and distrust of teachers and public education, and frame it in such a way as to have it feel positive, capture the broader audience’s attention, and provide hope. Above all, it is hope that will help us to cross the scorching desert of privatization, standardization, and the vilification of teaching professionals. My story is still a work in progress. I will have to frame it just so. But only one day in and I am feeling hope-filled and energized. To sit in a room with several other educators willing to use two days in late July to grow in courage, power, and truth is a wonderful use of my summer holiday. We each have a story to tell. We each have a voice to raise. What a privilege it is to sit with these colleagues and work together towards a more positive-storied tomorrow. A positive, intentional school community is not something that just happens. I guess the word “intentional” is a pretty good clue word there, isn’t it? But really. I am thinking of the best ways to create a positive school culture at the new campus of which I will be a part in the fall. It is a new senior campus. Each of the students who have reached senior status will be shuffled over to this new campus, and we will become a new community of learners.
The devil, as they say, is in the details. The devilish detail that is sticking in many of the new seniors’ craws is that this new campus is not new at all. It is the older, more worn, former Ninth Grade Campus. This year’s seniors have already out-grown (or say they have) the smaller, less aesthetically-pleasing brick edifice. My best estimate is that roughly half of the upcoming seniors and their parents are opposed to this plan for the fall. It has come to be known as “The Switch” (insert creepy music and screechy sound effects). I don’t fully mean to poke fun. I understand their misgivings. I really do. In mid-June, I said goodbye to my gorgeous home-away-from home: my classroom of three years with westward facing windows and a breath-taking view of the woods in all their seasonal glory. I understand that it feels like a demotion for what should be the shining finish to a hard won battle to the finish line. I get it. The seniors have been looking forward to ruling the school, and now, they will be back where they started. I understand the negative take on this move. I also get, however, that we need to do something different. The curriculum we are developing for this new campus is going to change the way these students are prepared for what comes after graduation. The possibility for student choice and authentic, project-based learning fills me with giddy excitement and hope for the future. I am excited for the new campus. I believe in the vision, and I will work tirelessly to help the North Campus at Holt Public Schools be a wild success. All of this bright-eyed jibber jabber and positive envisioning will be for naught, however, unless we work as a team to build a positive school culture. That will be the thing. We need to work together to make the North Campus a place where students want to be. We need to create a new way of looking at the senior year of high school. We need to build community. I feel as if I am up for the task. I feel nervous but energized. I am worried about the negative attitudes of some community members. They are actively cheering for our failure. Come what may, I choose positivity. I choose community. I choose student choice. I have been granted the opportunity to do school differently, and for that, I am so very thrilled. The road ahead is long and steep. I am sure there will be more setbacks than I even want to imagine just starting out. But that’s the beauty of it. We will build a positive school community of which each senior can be proud to be a part. It will take hard work and perseverance. Luckily, we Holt Rams have that in spades. A Pantoum Inspired By WRITE BESIDE THEM By Penny Kittle ~Erin Umpstead Write beside them Sit right down Show your process Ask their help Sit right down Ask their help Offer choices Build their confidence Offer choices Writer notebooks: write, reread Build their confidence Help them see Writer notebooks: write, reread Many ways to tell a story Help them see Conferences show caring Many ways to tell a story Some days are off days Conferences show caring Some days shine bright Some days are off days Show your process Some days shine bright Write beside them Ypsilanti Bill, the wordsmith of note.
Karen is brilliant and loaded with wit. Shari is sassy kindness in motion. Erin has stickers spread near and wide. Karen is brilliant and loaded with wit. Erin has stickers spread near and wide. Kevin will someday rule the world, we hope. Cynthia is a grandma who can turn a phrase. Kevin will someday rule the world, we hope. Amy’s energy is intoxicating and magnetic. Cynthia is a grandma who can turn a phrase. Beth, a powerhouse with the smile to match. Amy’s energy is intoxicating and magnetic. Lorena has a musical, magical laugh. Beth, a powerhouse with the smile to match. Michael knows how deep still waters run. Lorena has a musical, magical laugh. Shari is sassy kindness in motion. Michael knows how deep still waters run. Ypsilanti Bill, the wordsmith of note. Writing is hard work and takes on a rhythmic beauty when done well. That’s why I think it is much like hula hooping. It’s a strange idea; but just go round with me and let’s see where this goes.
Writing is like hula hooping because it is a cyclical process. It is good exercise; and when you do it in public, people will stare, start a conversation, and, most likely, will say something like “Oh, I could never do that!” “You could if you tried,” I counter, circling my hips without a pause. Writing is… Writing is… and around we go again. Writing is… Writing is… and around we go and go. A hula hoop has a few requirements to be a good one. The one I have was purchased at a music festival, but that is not a necessity. Sizes matters, or so they say. An appropriate size for your hula hoop is that it should come up to the top of your tummy when standing on end. Writing demands a large enough imagination to stand up to tall tales and short attention spans alike. Thick hoops are easier than thinner hoops; just like writing with thick, juicy details makes you want to keep reading and follow where it leads. Another essential quality of a hula hoop is that it be weighted properly. The one I have has curtain weights secured inside and that allows it to flow around my revolving waist like the ripples out from a raindrop. Writing needs to be weighty enough to speak to today’s issues. Humor and fluff are fun and can provide motivation for some writers. However, the weightier writing is what changes ideas, opinions, and, maybe, the world. Writing, like a quality hula hoop, needs to carry enough weight to get the job done. Writing is… Writing is… and around we go again. Writing is… Writing is… and around we go and go. You can get a hula hoop just about anywhere. They are figuratively a dime a dozen. Don’t waste your time or money on the cheap flimsy ones though. You’ll live to regret it. This is how I feel about much of the hullabaloo I see in mainstream avenues for the written word. I see a huge, lucrative business of writing about fashion, the latest gadget, celebrity “news.” Don’t waste your time or money on flimsy writing. You’ll live to regret it. Anyone can hula hoop. Believe me; it’s true! My friend from college does ballet leaps and turns while swiveling her midsection as if her life depends on it. I don’t claim to be able to do such choreographed hooping, but that doesn’t discourage me. I may never be able to pirouette whilst hula hooping and I’m okay with that. I can still practice. I can still have fun. This is how I feel about writing. While I may dance word circles around some, there are others that leave me in their written dust. This makes me no less a writer; just as my friend’s artsy hula hooping holds no bearing on my hooping aspirations. We all hula hoop to our own rhythm and writing is no different. Writing is… Writing is… and around we go again. Writing is… Writing is… and around we go and go. A senior campus
A chance to start anew Let’s build a community One where we each have a voice A chance to start anew One where we each have a voice Built on respect in word and deed A place for us to belong Built on respect in word and deed Leadership and curiosity bloom here A place for us to belong A shining, golden capstone experience Leadership and curiosity bloom here Rough hewn from the vision of a few A shining, golden capstone experience A way to make this last year count Rough hewn from the vision of a few Let’s build a community A way to make this last year count A senior campus When I think of Ethel, I think MOM! I think best friend. I think of the millions of ways she showed me how to be a good woman. My memories of her are mostly centered on the healthy and happy relationship that I had with my beloved mother.
But mom was more than just my mom. She was an auntie too. My Auntie Laverne is mom’s older sister. Auntie had four kids starting after her marriage to Uncle Jim when she was eighteen; so, they were young adults when my brothers and I came along. Ethel was auntie to four great kids, my first cousins: Lou, Jimmy, Kenneth, and John. She would play with them and run around with them. Her energy matched theirs and her capacity for fun was unending. Family lore has it that one winter mom and the kids were sledding and having a ball. Auntie Laverne tells the story that the revelers would come up to the kitchen window to get a drink of water and then head right back out to the sledding hill. When mom came up for her drink, my auntie warned her not to expect her to play with Ethel’s kids like this. Ethel was an outstanding aunt. (Aunt Laverne is an amazing auntie too! She’s just not a sledder but neither am I, so I don’t feel as if I missed out.) There are stories that fill in the growing years of these niece and nephews. Lou had three skirts and only one zipper. She would sew the zipper into whichever skirt she wanted to wear that day to high school. Mom said she would come out with her jacket all done up and my aunt, her mother, never knew what that girl wore to school. The boys were trouble, mischief, and fun by the pound. There is another family story that describes a time when they were meeting my father for the first time. The two youngest, Ken and John, grabbed of the chair my father was sitting in and lifted it above their heads as far as they could reach--- with my dad still sitting in it. My dad’s life flashed before his eyes when John couldn't reach any higher yet Kenny was pushing onward towards the sky. The years that Ethel watched her sister’s kids grow up were among the happiest in her life. She loved being an auntie! These nephews grew into manhood and started families of their own. Lou, the only girl, became our nanny in California. My mom never let these young people outgrow her love and attention. She was constantly looking for and finding inexpensive little bits of whatnot that reminded her of her niece and nephews. She was always telling stories of their childhood. Ethel taught me how to be great auntie and to love every minute of it. When her nephews were old enough to have grandchildren of their own, Ethel was still their favorite aunt. She would remember each of their birthdays with a very special cake. I would always wait with great anticipation for Kenny or John’s birthdays. This may seem odd until you know that Aunt Ethel would make her nephews a Mounds Cake each year on their special day. She rarely, if ever, made this decadent delicacy for our family. It was special and it was for her nephews. I remember being excited when I would see her mixing the marshmallow cream with the coconut. I would ask to stir the melting chocolate chips. I will never forget the heavenly taste of mom’s Mounds Cake. Nor will I likely ever forget how delicious it is to be the favorite auntie! *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Ethel’s MOUNDS CAKE 1 box Devil's food cake mix 1 c. milk 1 c. sugar 30 marshmallows or one large jar of Mallow Cream 14 oz. coconut 1 tsp. vanilla 12 oz. chocolate morsels 1 stick butter Bake cake mix as directed in 9x13 inch pan. Melt and boil milk, sugar and marshmallows. Boil 1 minute. Add coconut and vanilla. Pour on cake while hot. Melt chocolate morsels with butter. Pour over coconut mixture and chill until chocolate hardens. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ It is Saturday and I have no homework. It is a rare day; my two older brothers and I are actually getting along. It is the perfect day to build a fort. We spend a lot of time gathering the needed materials. We grab all the couch and chair cushions; but that is not going to be enough. The beds give up their pillows and blankets too. Each bed is stripped and the pile of fort-building materials reaches for the ceiling. We are ready to embark on a building experience that will result in the BEST BLANKET FORT EVER!
We confer and contemplate. We envision and explain. Eventually we set to work. I imagine the background music to have a building tempo that mirrors our reach for the ceiling of our base-housing apartment. Starting in the living room, our blanket and pillow fort stretches from the living room along the length of the worn tan couch. It cuts the corner of the dining room and stretches past the light-filled kitchen. A fireplace is the central point in the three-bedroom abode and the fort stretches nicely around the brick structure. The walls and supporting structure are the stiff couch cushions and the dining room chairs. Spaced evenly along the walls of the fort, these materials are magically transformed into the carefully conceived walls of our fort. Grandma’s patchwork quilts make a colorful roof. I don’t remember her but I cherish these blankets. I arrange them until I feel they are prefect.The front door of our third-floor apartment is able to open; but anyone over three feet tall will have to kneel and crawl through the fort in order to navigate our home. There is no room to do anything else. My mother, a permissive and encouraging woman, loves us dearly. We are her life. She smiles, laughs and offers suggestions to problems that present themselves. The BEST FORT EVER takes form and lives! This Saturday will go down in the books as a glad success. Just then, the phone rings. Mom reaches for the receiver and waves the music lower. Her best friend is coming over and we are going to have to dismantle our fort. My brothers and I stare at each other in disbelief. Was not this turncoat just suggesting a reinforcement for the entry way? NO! She will not order the demise of our masterpiece without us putting up a major stink! We rally our complaints and let out a litany of counter offers and negotiated stays. The door opens and we all freeze. There is Priscilla Pops, the artist. She is quirky and odd. Ethel attracts the odd ones. Her short, curly, brown pixie cut matches her brown velvet eyes. The twinkle contained within those eyes holds intelligence and mischief. A hearty hello is punctuated by her dropping to all fours. Before any of us know it, she is crawling through the fort to make it to my mother’s kitchen table. No fort will get in her way of coffee and good conversation. It’s days like this when I’m not so worried to grow up. When I see that Mrs. Pops still likes to play and hasn’t yet outgrown forts, I feel hope. It’s days like today that I feel that I will always enjoy Saturdays. The Music of My Heart
07/08/14 The music in my heart is varied and beautiful. I hear the soundtrack to my hectic life throughout the day and my mostly forgotten dreams play out to tunes and melodies as yet unheard by conscious ears. Music accompanies my heartbeat. Thump Thump Thump Thump I remember Ethel having me program in the songs she liked from the Billy Joel double disc. She didn’t like the songs about drinking like “Captain Jack” but loved the songs about beating the odds, coming out ahead. She loved the positive songs, songs with a message of hope. Ethel loved music and there are songs that call her memory back to my mind’s eye. One day I came home from ninth grade and she was vacuuming the living room carpet in a hand-me-down Rat t-shirt. The rat on the front had an evil leer and thick bald tail. I was amused and remember shaking my head; Ethel would wear anything that came in the Goodwill bags to be donated from family and friends. She was not discriminatory as to what she would wear when cleaning the house. Causing further cognitive dissonance for me, she was singing ”Stand” by REM, poorly. I got such a kick out of that woman. “Stand, stand! Stand, stand! *off tune humming* Stand, stand, stand!” Ethel loved “Friday I’m in Love” by The Cure, an upbeat, positive song that she would have me play over and over. She hated the song “Witchcraft” by Book of Love. She once broke the tape player while I was playing against her protest. She didn’t really “break” it. She pushed some button that caused the radio to play even when the tape was pushed in. Ethel was careful of the musical messages she would allow in her mind and urge me to do the same. Music is powerful and my dad was fearful of it when we lived in Germany. We went to a very letter-of-the-law church and the pastor, a fearsome ex-Navy man, with anchor tattoos on each forearm, would preach against the demons which lived in the music. I remember dad pulling the streaming tape from the cassette. I remember being frightened of the the exposed demons which had been living in Alan’s Michael Jackson Bad album. The idea was that you had to burn the tape or the demons would stay in the room where they had been loosed. Thank goodness we had a fireplace in our apartment on base housing. Music has always connected me to my nieces. Jaci would demand the “Honk Honk Beep Beep” song several times each time I would see her. She would also keep the song going verse after verse by hollering out the chorus. She never wanted the song to end. Now, at fifteen, she tells me about her newest indie-rock discovery and doesn’t ask me to sing anymore. Celina, still eleven for a few more months, and I appreciate Disney songs. We listen to them on road trips. We sing them together. Our favorite song to sing is “Almost There” from The Frog and The Princess. Tiana is our favorite princess and we cheer each time she wins in the end. Celina and I are bonded over music. This morning, while she was watching me put on my make-up, we sang The Parent Trap theme song. I am hoping against hope that our shared musical interest will not suffer and die as she grows up. “There's been trials and tribulations You know I've had my share But I've climbed the mountain, I've crossed the river And I'm almost there, I'm almost there I'm almost there!” Music makes my world go round. I don’t like to be in a quiet room when there could be music playing. I usually listen to Hawaiian music; because I am Hawaiian at heart. When I am writing a paper or reading a graduate school article, I have to choose between Lindsey Stirling or classical music. The most important thing is to have music running through my mind at all times. I play music while I cook; I think it adds flavor to my dishes. I play music while I clean; I think it adds sparkle to my home. Music makes the world go round and lives in my heart. |
AuthorI am a teacher, an auntie, a good friend, and a writer. This is my first blog and I am glad to share it with you. Archives
September 2014
Categories
All
|