It's That Time of Year

Exhaust the little moment. Soon it dies.

And be it gash or gold it will not come

Again in this identical disguise.

-Gwendolyn Brooks

Politics permeates practically everything... like the new social studies curriculum in Texas. Sensible teachers MUST continue to bring in primary documents, paint an accurate picture from various perspectives, and foster inquiry that will allow students to draw their own conclusions, make their own connections, and build their own knowledge.

Critical thinking skills should permeate everything.

I share many of my life's stories with my students. They're the best audience. I write the stories on our desktop and it's projected to our screen while they're writing in their journals. They see me revise as I write. They see me revise as I read it aloud. They give me feedback and advice. I even had a student create a fictional tale of meeting Will Smith in Hollywood with similar elements to my real account of almost meeting Betty White in L.A. fifteen years ago. Today, one journal choice was to write all they knew about their favorite singer, actor, author, or poet. I had recently read a Time article on Justin Beiber and wanted to impress them with my pop-trivia. During their pre-writing chit chat, one of my girls turned to her neighbor and stated that Ms. Blady was her favorite writer. She didn't say it for me to hear. I was tickled. It was the first time (and hopefully not the last) that I had ever heard someone say such a thing. Tickled.

A Call for Interdisciplinarity!

Early Warning! Why Reading by the End of Third Grade Matters

The Annie E. Casey Foundation's latest report (2010) finds that kids who can read on grade level by the end of third grade are more successful in school, work, and in life. The report also reminds us that there is still a wide gap between advantaged and disadvantaged children. Sixty-eight percent of 4th grade public school students in the United States scored below proficient reading level in 2009. In Louisiana? 82%! Egad. Texas has 72%. With what we have gathered from decades of research in this area, why are we still seeing these kinds of statistics?
The "...current policies and funding streams are too fragmented, programs too segmented by children's age and developmental stage, and key interventions too partial to get widespread positive results... Twenty two years ago, while analyzing why so little of what is known to work gets applied in practice, Lisbeth Schorr wrote of 'traditions which segregate bodies of information by professional, academic, political, and bureaucratic boundaries', and a world in which 'complex intertwined problems are sliced into manageable but trivial parts.' The Foundation's latest report finds this to be true today.

For more information:
www.datacenter.kidscount.org/reports/readingmatters.aspx

it's the people
that define our lives
seek them
be sought
find them
be bought
take them
give them away
time to leave
let them stay
connect
fibers astray
cry
scream
play
it's the people
each person
one word
one glance
first impression
second chance
know me
see me
let me be
try me
cross me
set me free
it's the people
all of the people
like stars in the galaxy
promises and negotiation
Wilt by association
to our foibles, a foil
to our charge, a coil
All of those people
impressions branded
or a whisper stranded
in a far away place
a shadow of a face
a scant trace
an embrace
a place
where you were
with those people
each person
a reason
a choice
architecture of our voice
Those people
the words exchanged
decorum rearranged
but the laughter...
with those people
the ever after
with those people
Tattooed
Imbued
with their light
The people
to whom we are plighted
connected and ignited
it is those people
that define our lives
who are we?
from them it derives

One More Bites The Dust

"...the former director of a nonprofit death-penalty appeals group, permanently surrendered his law license Friday. Picou, 49, pleaded guilty in March to state charges in New Orleans that he stole more than $200,000 from the Capital Appeals Project between 2005 and 2009."

-Written by Bill Lodge, The Advocate, May 1, 2010

This is my former boss. $200,000!? Boy, oh boy! Before education, I attended law school and worked at the Louisiana Indigent Defense Board and later at a private firm. This blows my mind! He must have gone Katrina-Krazy! What about all of his clients? I contrasted the slime balls at the private firm to this intelligent, passionate advocate. You think you know a person...

The HeArt of Conversation

Brenner and I decided to eat at Double Dave's tonight. Kane was running around town with his friends and had already eaten at his job. I mention Kane's whereabouts because I am definitely not one to judge others' parenting skills, but I witnessed a sad exchange or lack of one tonight between a father and his three-ish year old daughter. First of all, let me note that I don't know how old she actually is because I don't talk to strangers just because they have a small child or a baby. I don't go ga-ga over babies in public. Oh, how old is she? Aww, he's so adorable. I'm just not made that way.

While dad prepared her plate at the buffet, she kept coyly peeping at Brenner. He does go ga-ga over little ones, but they seem to be crazy about him, too. We think it's because he looks like a large baby himself. At least he did before the beard. Once dad arrived with their plates, he started to text. He texted and texted and texted and texted while this little girl sat there silently eating her carrot sticks. This is where I would like to talk to people in public: Look at your daughter!! Explain things, ask her questions, tell stories, make her giggle! Before he knows it, she'll be running around town with her friends and their only communication will be via texting.

Earlier today, however, while sharing a story with me, a colleague revealed that she still reads aloud to her son, who is in junior school... at his request! I hope someone's reading to that little girl tonight.

Trying to recreate a moment
is expensive
and apparently
utterly pathetic.
White Russians don't taste the same here.
In this place.
In this time.
Anachronistic Elixirs
They used to taste like bliss.
Earned Bliss,
promising, potential, passionate
Bliss.
Now...
potent... only in their
somniferous effects.
Bon Nuit.

Mardi Gras Beads For Sale!!

I attended a pre-Institute meeting this morning with my new fellow San Antonio Writing Project teachers. Kelly shared her best-practices presentation as a model for the rest of us. She had us read an excerpt from her story titled Radio Flyer. One of the writing extensions was to write a connection to this piece or to a Patricia Polacco book. I immediately connected to the wagon story, remembering the day Shay, Mary, and I decided to sell Mardi Gras beads to... well, here's what I wrote:

The joke in New Orleans is that all of our houses are sinking because of the grocery bags and boxes full of Mardi Gras beads that we collect in our attics. Other cities may call them beaded necklaces, but we just call them beads. These beads should have been dress-up heaven for me and my two younger sisters, but we didn’t really value the things that were thrown en masse off of floats for free, unless of course they were the long, shiny ones we called pearls, and even those lost their appeal on Ash Wednesday.

Until my dad built us a wooden, girl-operated go-cart, the wagon was our own Mardi Gras float as we pretended to be the ones who could afford such a luxury. As the oldest sister, I designed the daily schedule, and they usually blindly followed, depending on Shay's mood. One day I decided that we would profit from the volumes of beads in our closets. “We're going to sell these beads to people walking by." We lived at a busy intersection where North Jeff Davis Parkway met Bienville St. The traffic was divided by a huge neutral ground. Other cities call them medians. People were always passing our house: nurses walking to Mercy Hospital, waiters on their way to the local restaurants. Canal St. was only two blocks away.  

We decorated our wagon with signs advertising five cents for the small, insignificant beads and 50 cents for the long, shiny pearls. "No one really needs or wants beads," I realized. “We’re adorable little girls. Anyone will buy from us, “ the youngest, Mary, pointed out. That’s when I realized that she was the most adorable of us three, so we needed to work that angle. Shay and I lavished beads all over her. She wore them as crowns, bracelets, necklaces, and anklets, and she sat on top of mounds of beads in our red wagon. I  pushed the wagon from behind as she steered with the handle to make sure our Queen of Mardi Gras was the first thing pedestrians saw. Shay followed, ready to collect our dough.

“How adorable. Here you go, baby." 

"Oh, look at these girls trying to make a living."

Shay collected many nickels and even quarters when we wisely decided to sell 7 beads for 25 cents. What a bargain! Of course, we also were ignored or heard things like, "What the hell do I need more Mardi Gras beads for?" Mid City, New Orleans was nothing if not interesting. 

After selling for about an hour, making our way up and down the cracked sidewalk, a man in a matte grey El Camino flashed a dollar bill out of his window. We followed him halfway down Iberville St., hooting and hollering because that was the first dollar of the day. He pulled up to the curb, I shouted to him from the sidewalk, "What kind of beads would you like?" He smiled and didn't reply right away, but he still held the dollar out of the window. I knew right then that something was amiss, but my sisters and I really wanted to make our business venture a success. 

"OK, this works like a real Mardi Gras parade. You just drop that dollar, and we'll throw you some beads." 

"The dollar will blow away. Just come here and get it and give me my beads." 

Darn. I looked at my sisters' faces. Eager and earnest. My bad feeling was growing. The presence of such a feeling is why my dad let me 'rat the streets' so much, why my stepmom left me in charge of my sisters, but on this day, my greed overcame my street smarts, and I approached his car with the beads, the crappy ones, of course.

My sisters know how this story ends. The comical parts: trying to rapidly flee while pushing a loaded wagon, one sister (I won't reveal which one) shouting, "I want to see! I want to see!",  and my only term for his anatomy being an expletive (thanks to little boys at school) when I frantically retold the events to my dad. Mid City, New Orleans and my childhood... nothing if not interesting. We never did get that dollar.