Magic: The Art of Practice and Being a Cheerleader

      In our second snowcation of the month of January, my kids treated me to a magic show. Honestly, the only magical thing about the show was that all three kids were playing together and getting along. The show began with Jack pulling six things out of his top hat including a quarter and a glue stick. Pure "magic." Then my girls held playing cards upside down on their fingers. When I asked how they did that, I was told, "A magician never reveals her tricks." And then Jack made Katie disappear. Here is an excerpt of that moment:

Jack: And now I will make Katie disappear. (He waves his magic wand in the air over Katie's head. Katie "magically" diappears).

Me: How do you bring her back?

Jack: We haven't practiced that part yet.

     I laughed at that moment as a few minutes later Katie emerged from the closet. As enjoyable as the magic show was, I learned two things from that moment: 1) practice is an important part of what we do in life and 2) everyone needs a cheerleader.

     I grew up under the motto, "Practice makes perfect." Anything I've ever done in life where I've been successful has been because of practice (and maybe a little bit of magic). About a year ago, I had to give a speech in front of a room of around 300 people. I was petrified. For those of you who know me well, I hate the spotlight that public speaking brings. So, I practiced. I read over that speech every day daily until one day I was driving in the car by myself and all of the words of that speech were in my head. Somehow, I had memorized the entire ten minute speech. On the evening I was to give that speech, I delivered it with much more confidence than I anticipated. I still did not love the spotlight, but I did it. Just like how Jack couldn't make Katie magically reappear because they hadn't practiced that part, I don't think I could have delivered that speech without practice.

     Juniors in Room 211, we've been practicing since September. At the start of the school year, some of you told me you never would be able to speak about a poem for eight minutes for your Individual Oral Commentary (IOC). And you couldn't. This assessment is hard. I know because I had a class several years ago challenge me to deliver a commentary in front of the entire class. I said "um" 14 times. They counted. I needed practice. WE have practiced. Every time I asked you to speak in a Socratic seminar, we were practicing. Every time you timed your partner delivering a commentary, we were practicing. Every time we answered questions about literature, we practiced. We even played musical chairs to practice. So many of you went from speaking for less than a minute to being able to deliver a full six to eight minute commentary. How? It has nothing to do with magic. It was all practice.

Sometimes we took a break in our "practice."

     Seniors, you've been practicing as well. Since September of junior year when I introduced you to the idea of what a knowledge question is, you've been practicing how to write good ones. You've mastered what a REAL life situation is as well as how to write these knowledge questions without necessarily beginning with "to what extent."

     Both groups are ready for your IB assessments. Juniors, you are ready to give your IOC next week. Seniors, you are ready to write your prescribed title in Theory of Knowledge. And I am ready to be your cheerleader.

     When my kids performed their magic show last week, I realized how much the success of their show depended on my enthusiasm and engagement. So, I asked questions. I marveled when Jack pulled a glue stick out of his hat. I was in awe when Katie "magically" disappeared (even though I knew she had just went into the closet). I was their cheerleader and greatest champion.

     I never was a cheerleader in high school. Actually, we didn't even have a cheering team. I think this picture of me at age 4 is probably the only moment I dressed as a cheerleader. Yet, I find myself a cheerleader on a regular basis, especially when it comes to my own children and my students.

Last year, my principal, Dr. John Wheeler, showed us a video clip of Rita Pierson at a faculty meeting. This is one video that changed my teaching. Ms. Pierson argued that every child needs a champion. Here is an excerpt of her words that really moved me:

I realized from her motivational speech that I have the power to change not only minds by teaching content but the ability to change mindsets. Some of the most nervous students last year became my greatest challenges and my greatest successes. My juniors and seniors I currently teach, I want you to know I am your champion. I am your greatest cheerleader. Over the next week and a half, I will be out of the classroom for six days to hear individual oral commentaries. Many of my colleagues have told me how awful that must be to have twenty minute conversations with every single student (77 of you this year). This year I will spend 1,540 minutes listening to commentaries. That's over 25 hours of listening. That's over a day of listening. Yes, it's a lot of listening. Yet to me, it is magical. When else as an English teacher do you have the opportunity to talk to every student individually about literature? There's no better moment in my teaching when someone comes in to do his commentary, and he is brilliant, and I get to cheer him on as he goes.

     So, as you begin your assessments--your IOC and prescribed titles--let me be your champion. You've done all of the practice you can. Don't tell me you can't do this. Don't tell me you don't want to (I know no one really wants to complete an IB assessment). Instead, remember the cheerleader who is in your corner, excited to see your every move. Remember you deserve someone in your corner.

     Next year, you will come into Room 211 as so many of the seniors have and will tell my current juniors the commentary is not that bad. And when someone next year hears your commentary as I am demonstrating what a good commentary sounds like and asks, "How did they do that? There's no way I can speak for 8 minutes on a poem." I will simply smile and reply, "A magician never reveals her tricks."

Good luck, my students. Remember you've got a champion in me listening to you speak and reading your words. I'm excited to sit back and watch the magic.

Having Resolution--My New Year's Resolution

Having Resolution--My New Year's Resolution

     I recently taught my favorite but perhaps the most underrated and undervalued punctuation mark--the dash--to my IB juniors. I'm seeing that dash creep into their writing more and more--and I love it! I joke with my students that Parenthetical Dash would be my band name if I ever quit my day job and formed my own band. For those of you truly curious about this, I have not a single musical bone in my body, but a girl can dream. My students have learned that the dash--if used appropriately--can add personality and voice to any piece of writing. Yet, this punctuation mark also has become slightly metaphorical for me. Allow me to explain.

     Almost two years ago, I found myself in a famous cemetery in New Orleans, Louisiana. I was supposed to be taking pictures in a street photography course (and I did as evidenced below), but my mind began to wander as I considered the people buried in the famous cemetery.

Tombstones are fascinating to me, as they can tell a lot about a person by the names, the epitaph, and the dates they lived. Forgetting my task of photographing the cemetery entirely, I started to make up stories in my head about the people etched on the tombstones--because what else would an English teacher do in a cemetery? And I began to think about the fact that those two dates on the tombstone--the date of birth and death--are not really important. Rather, it’s the dash in between that matters. That small dash represents our life and all that we did, all that we said, all the people we impacted, those we hurt. What we choose to do with that dash is up to us.
     
This moment of how we live that dash reminds me of one of my students I taught. The biggest lesson this student has taught me is how to live that dash in moments of determination and resolution.

     At the end of the year, my students are required to deliver a ten minute literary presentation as part of their IB assessment. Oral presentations were not this student's idea of "fun" in my class. While we practiced throughout the year, I knew that he would not be comfortable in front of the class for ten minutes. I understood this discomfort because I despise public speaking, myself. As he stood at the podium, he somehow couldn't find the words to begin. I asked him to step outside, and I followed him into the hallway. He sat on the floor as tears welled in his eyes, telling me that he couldn't give his presentation. I quietly began to reaffirm the idea that he could, in fact, give this presentation, yet he wasn't buying in to what I was saying. Finally, I looked at him and got serious. "Do you know the secret to giving an oral presentation?" I asked him. This seemed a bit hypocritical considering my own fear of public speaking, but I knew I had to find a way to get him to give his presentation. He looked up at me. "You just have to know your first line," I said. "Do you know your first line?" The boy slowly nodded his head and uttered the first line of his presentation. "Good. Now I want you to say that line over and over again because if you can remember the first line, you can remember the next line and the line after that and the one after that. I promise you they'll come to you." I left him out in the hallway for a little longer to practice that first line. 

     When he was ready, he came into the classroom and stood behind the podium. Before he could utter his first line, there was a reaffirmation from someone on the side of the room, "You got this." Another came: "You can do it." I loved the spontaneous positive reinformcement his peers were giving him, but I feared he would forget his first line. But he didn't. He said that line and many more afterwards. The class gave him the biggest round of applause when he was finished. I sat at my desk, unable to grade the presentation because I had goosebumps. I had witnessed something so incredibly amazing--not only did I see kindness among my students, but I saw a student face his fear and succeed. I grabbed onto his arm as he rushed out the door. I've come to notice that everyone is always so slow to enter my room and so quick to leave, but I knew this student wasn't getting out of my classroom without me saying something. "I'm proud of you," I said. He looked at me and smiled. It was the biggest I had seen him smile that year. When this student unexpectedly passed away, his death paralyzed me and changed me as a teacher, and this story keeps coming back to the forefront of my mind as one that has made one of the largest impacts on me in my career.

      I don't usually tell stories about individual students in my blog, but I tell this story because I have learned so much about resolution from this one particular student. What does it mean to have resolution? I generally avoid dictionary definitions and suggest my students do the same in their own writing, but I would be remiss if I didn't define the word. According to Webster's Dictionary, resolution is "firmness of purpose; a mental state of determination." This student showed me and the other twenty something students in my classroom that day what it means to have resolution. He showed us what it means to be determined; he showed us what it means to live the dash.

     In a similar manner, I'm inspired by my current students who find ways of determination and resolution in living that dash. Senior TOK students, you have turned in your final drafts of your extended essay--an eighteen month research project. Congratulations! I have watched you from last January think of a unique topic, perform college-level research, and then write and rewrite. To say I am proud is an understatement.

Junior TOK students, you spent the day before break collecting clothes for Shepherd's Way Shelter and making no sew blankets. Your sense of giving and generosity is inspiring.

IB English juniors, you have shown me resolution as you prepare for your Individual Oral Commentary at the end of this month. You have gone from speaking for 49 seconds back in September to now delivering five to eight minute commentaries. I am in awe at your perseverance and determination to succeed.

So, as we begin 2018, I ask you to think about the dash in your life--those moments and what you choose to do with them. I ask you to think about how you can live a life of resolution. How can you show determination despite the fact that you are scared or don't really know how to make sense of your dash? In life, you can make a wish or you can make things happen. My resolution this new year is to make things happen, to live a life with resolution--with the kind of determintation and purpose that will make the dash in my life truly matter. What that means is I am committed to the things and people I believe in but also am committed to those things that scare me. It means I put down my phone or my book or my work and make time for others. It means when my son asks me to play Emoji Uno (yes, there is such a miserable game) for the ninteenth time, I play another round. It means that I start writing the book I have always wanted to write or try the lesson plan I had been afraid would not work. It means no matter what, I say yes to new experiences, new ideas. "No" cannot be an answer nor can "I can't" when I most certainly can.

Perhaps a year from now you will be listening to me sing in my band, the Parenthetical Dash. I will turn my monthly blog writing into the drafting of song lyrics. While I highly doubt this will be the case, this year I'm pursuing a life laced in resolution--and of course, a girl can always dream. Happy New Year, my students and readers!