Lately, there has been a switch from English classes focused on critical readings, mini-lessons and writing workshops to standardized composition courses.
My latest visit with my former English teacher left me with a palatable sense that he feels his freedom is gone and he’s now trapped. The times when he would scour first his home library and then the photocopy machine are now over.
He used to spend hours pouring over what we should read, what we would gleam from the most. The winners would end up being in a far range, stretching from Zora Neale Hurston to the Federalist Papers and the more modern Malcom Gladwell. All of them have been replaced with a binder that lays by itself in the corner of the classroom: the 2017-2018 CSU developed English composition curriculum. The binder (besides the required books if there are any) contains the master copy of the year’s worth of material he is required to teach, along with the writing assignments.
As was promised to him, he is now free from having to lesson plan, free from the scramble over what to teach. But to my former teacher, that freedom comes at the price of imprisoning and atrophying his mind.
Back in my neck of the woods, pressure has been underway to move in the same direction. From what I’ve overheard in the hallway, the Wonders literacy program constantly approaches the school’s administrators to convince them to adopt their system. As for now, the answer back has been “No!” (as long as the test scores stay good). The teachers, and particularly this one I work with, believe in a more open-ended approach. The teacher spends about 10 minutes talking on say, how to add more action to a story, and then lets students work on writing while choosing three a day to conference with.
I am here to show you what happens when students are allowed to express themselves freely. The student I support struggles in writing precisely because she can’t take to directions often. Last year’s struggle was when the prompt required her to write about a person she cared about. The assignment became a nightmare in the flesh, starting with her feeling overjoyed at being able to honor her mother, guilty from not remembering things about her, and anxious over trying to write about her in the most perfect way. This manifested itself in lots of tears, screaming and grabs at my body. In private I pleaded with her teacher to let her choose a different topic. She agreed, which meant she could write about an object she cared about: strawberries. This turned out well, and her success in this assignment allowed her to feel confident enough when it came to tougher prompts. When she was frustrated, I would point out that she did so well in the strawberries assignment so she could do well again.
This year, the teacher is even more free-form with the first writing assignment. For this narrative writing, the teacher was happy with her as long as her pen was moving. After multiple fantastical short stories, she picked one to make into a final draft. Below is her final product. She did not get any guidance from me sans capitalization and indentation. It comes not from a product of a scripted curriculum, but rather teacher-crafted lessons that taught her to write with feeling- to dig deeper and deeper within herself until she found the heart of her story.
Note: The name of the dog has been changed to further preserve anonymity.
Pearl is What!? O:
Vroommm! “How was your first day at school?”, my mom asked.
“Fine”, I said. When we got home, we went to the back door, we saw Pearl, my dog, being pulled by her leash!
“Oh no!”, my mom said. “Pearl is dead!”
“Pearl is what!?” I shrieked. “The door was opened!”, mom said, groaning. I was so angry I went into the house.
After a ton of talk and tears, I got some plastic bags so mom could carefully pick up Pearl´s stiff body. She got a shovel and started digging a hole in the front lawn. I played my tablet to snap out of it but I couldn´t!
I remember her tiny, just born. “Can we keep her?”, I asked.
“You can keep her when she´s a bit older.”, said mom. The sound of the crunching bag brought me back.
As mom patched up the hole, I put flowers and one of Pearl´s chew toys on the grave.
“She will be remembered forever”, I weeped [sic]. “It´s okay. Everything will be okay”, mom said. “you still have me.”.
I softly said, “I guess you´re right.”
❤ In memory of Pearl forever
[picture of dog and of author´s likeness, which she titled “Tiny Me”]