I'm (potentially) returning to the blog-osphere...

It's been awhile since I posted here, which might lead one to think that I haven't been doing much reading/writing. That would be, to put it simply, a drastic misassumption. Three months into my first semester as a full-time graduate student, I feel like all I do these days is read, write, and discuss what I'm reading and writing. Mostly I enjoy this (though there are certainly moments/hours/days/weeks when I really really really miss being in a classroom actually teaching)... but the fact that I'm doing so much heavy/academic/formal reading and writing hasn't left much time or brain power for writing in this space. I've missed it, though, and have kept multiple blog-type topics percolating on the back burner of my mind. As the semester winds down (one essay, two presentations, five class meetings, and one take-home exam stand between me and the end of the academic semester), I've started reading for pleasure again* and am (potentially/probably/hopefully) returning to this writing space as well. So... welcome back into the recesses of my brain.

*Looking for a good read? I HIGHLY recommend First Comes Love, Then Comes Malaria: How a Peace Corps Poster Boy Won My Heart and a Third-World Adventure Changed My Life, by Eve Brown-Waite.

Just overheard on our street:

"So our roommate left a note that there's a squirrel in the bathroom."

Why I Love My Job :)

I always start the first class with my older elementary schoolers - rising second through fifth graders - by explaining two things: my expectations and my goals. Here's the gist of what I tell them...

"I need you to know that in this class, you are going to have fun, but I also expect each one of you to work very hard. I've got two goals for you in this class: to help you be a better reader and to help you like reading more. That means, that if you already like reading and think you're a good reader, you're going to be an even better reader by the time you finish this class! And, if you don't like reading that much or think you're not very good at it, you're going to be good at reading and like it more by the time we finish this class."

And then we dive in. To reading and tellbacks and main events and discussions of characters, story and meaning. To phonics and long word decoding and strategies for dealing with unrecognizable words. To memorable characters and absorption and light bulb moments.

Week 3 started today. I'm tired. (Don't let the late hour of this post fool you - I just got home from an hour long commute and it takes a bit to wind down after working so hard to stay awake on an empty highway.) I've reached that point where I know most of my students' names (and quirks), and I'm starting to shift my energy away from laying out my expectations to providing individual feedback and making sure that everyone is making progress toward his or her individual goals. With more than 200 students this term, that takes some doing. I spend chunks of time on the phone with parents or meeting with them after classes, answering questions and encouraging their efforts. Sometimes I come away from such encounters tired, particularly if there has been some confrontation involved or I've had to reiterate repeatedly my expectations for what they or their child will do at home and in the class.

But sometimes, as was the case this afternoon, a phone call turns out to be more of a gem than I ever expected - and by the time I hang up the phone, I've been reminded repeatedly why I like my job so much.

I was calling to check in with the Mom of a third grader who'd struggled with the in-class work during week 1 and then with the home practice during the first week. Mom had written me a letter detailing some of their struggle, and I wanted to respond to some questions she had asked me. I left a voicemail first, and she called me back a short time later.

I did far more listening than talking in that fifteen minute phone call. "Miss Lewis," she started, "[my son] is doing so great this week! He's actually enjoying reading!" This is a boy who'd struggled with reading in the past, whose teachers had repeatedly labeled him as below grade level, who had worked with an individual reading tutor for months before starting this class.

"You can't understand how much it means to me. He comes home from your class telling us what I great time he had. This week, he's been coming downstairs in the morning and asking if we can read now. He sees me reading and goes to get his book so we can both have our reading time." For a Mom who has spent the last few years worrying that her son might never enjoy reading, hearing him get excited about reading class and want to read is music in her ears.

He's just starting to transition to silent reading, so Mom was also worried that he might not be reading everything or understanding what he was reading, especially as he starts to jump into short chapter books. "I asked him to tell me about what he had just read, and he just went on and on. I couldn't keep track of all the different details he was telling me: it was like he was telling me the whole story again, making sure I knew that he had understood everything!"

She went on, telling me how he's started to use the decoding skills I'm teaching him in class when he comes across long words he doesn't recognize, covering up prefixes/suffixes and sounding out the base word. Voila! As is so often the case at this stage of reading, he discovers he does know that word - he'd just never seen it in print before. Confidence boosted, he keeps reading, becoming more and more absorbed in the story as he goes.

This isn't the first time a parent has shared a story like this with me, but I don't always get to hear about all the difference this program is making for my students. Really, it's why I do what I do: because I love to read, and even more than that, I love helping my students fall in love with reading!

Welcome.

A number of people have, shall we say, strongly encouraged me to post pictures of our apartment in Philly. After a few spurts of decorating, the most recent of which occurred this past super hot weekend, its becoming more and more homelike - and has finally reached the point where pictures won't feature mainly blank walls and stacks of empty cardboard boxes.

So, here, a brief tour of the flat... hopefully enough to whet your appetite for a visit ;)

our modern-day larder:

enough to feed my significant other for a week?

plus, three days worth of teaching materials packed and ready to go.

herbs sprout very quickly in a philadelphia "green house"...

a desk much cleaner than mine.

knick knacks in cubby holes: each with its own story.

a good space for living.

you're invited to dine with us.

note the theme?

wander down the hallway...

kitchen!

it gets pretty hot in here, but usually smells oh so good.

let your mind wander the world while you chop some veggies.

continue down the hall...

the loo.

(built for midgets)

morning view: eclectic living.

our lovely - and so spacious - back porch!

fabulous mulberry tree, whose fruits lie sleeping in our freezer.

A Phenomenal Poem.

When I went to the library to pick out Maya Angelou's memoir, I noticed a collection of her poetry sitting next to it on the shelf. Being myself, I naturally checked that one out as well. This afternoon, waiting for students to arrive for my classes, I flipped through its pages, reading this verse or that, losing myself in the rhythm of her voice.

I love poetry. There is something beautiful and monumentous about riding the ebbs and flows of language and cadence. I need to read poetry more often: this I realize every time I do immerse myself in verse. Sigh. And let it be.

Anyway, here's a poem from Maya that I - and the friends I read it aloud to this evening - absolutely adore. And I dedicate its posting to all the phenomenal women in my life...

"Phenomenal Woman"

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.

I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size

But when I start to tell them,

They think I'm telling lies.

I say,

It's in the reach of my arms,

The span of my hips,

The stride of my step,

The curl of my lips.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

I walk into a room

Just as cool as you please,

And to a man,

The fellows stand or

Fall down on their knees.

Then they swarm around me,

A hive of honey bees.

I say,

It's the fire in my eyes,

And the flash of my teeth,

The swing in my waist,

And the joy in my feet.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

Men themselves have wondered

What they see in me.

They try so much

But they can't touch

My inner mystery.

When I try to show them

They say they still can't see.

I say,

It's in the arch of my back,

The sun of my smile,

The ride of my breasts,

The grace of my style.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

Now you understand

Just why my head's not bowed.

I don't shout or jump about

Or have to talk real loud.

When you see me passing

It ought to make you proud.

I say,

It's in the click of my heels,

The bend of my hair,

The palm of my hand,

The need for my care.

'Cause I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

Life Reflected.

I have just finished reading Maya Angelou's memoir, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. A teacher friend and I chose it as the first book for our recently started book club. It's taken me a few weeks to get through, but I have thoroughly enjoyed this book and the reflections it has elicited.

I first "discovered" memoirs a few years ago. I credit a mentor of mine, a wise and reflective woman, with that introduction. I quickly fell in love with the honest stories and the reflective wisdom which caresses my own poetic nature. Still today, there is something refreshing about slipping into someone else's story, listening to someone else's thoughts, and reflecting on the intersections of our distinct lives. It is a type of writing, a type of thinking, which comes naturally when my mind is calm and at peace.

It's a balance, this writing style, between telling a story from the past and reflecting on it in the future. Mixing the honesty of the experience once lived through with the meaning realized in hind sight. An art form, really.

Let me share with you, here, a passage I particularly enjoyed from Maya Angelou's work:

"My education and that of my Black associates were quite different from the education of our white schoolmates. In the classroom we all learned past participles, but in the streets and in our homes the Blacks learned to drop s's from plurals and suffixes from past-tense verbs. We were alert to the gap separating the written word from the colloquial. We learned to slide out of one language and into another without being conscious of the effort. At school, in a given situation, we might respond with 'That's not unusual.' But in the street, meeting the same situation, we easily said, 'It be's like that sometimes.'"

Pencils.

I decided today that pencils are my favorite renewable resource. (Well, or at least a close second to water...).

I'm a teacher.

I had a parent ask me a question today that I was used to fielding in Uganda (with this exact phrasing) but haven't dealt with so much in the US:

"Are you a teacher by profession?"

My response today, as it almost always is, was affirmative: "Yes."

Today's parent followed up with encouragement: "I can tell. You're very good at it." (A blessed confidence booster after a crazy afternoon of traffic that resulted in me reaching my teaching site ten minutes before that class started - so glad I didn't procrastinate this week's prep!)

I don't have a degree in Education (yet). I don't hold a teaching certificate. But I do have a decent amount of training in teacherly type things (and plenty of it specific to the work that I'm doing now) and a fair amount of experience.

I am a teacher by vocation - and, at least currently - by profession.

And, as a teacher, pencils are essential to my line of work. Other writing utensils can be useful, but even with my adult students, there are times when a good sharp pencil - with an easily rubbable eraser - is just a basic necessity.

Because I often require students to write with pencils (or at all), I have a bag of them that I bring to every class. Three weeks into this teaching term, I've seen a fair number of my pencils walk away. Or, perhaps I should say, I haven't seen them: students or their parents have (usually accidentally) walked away with them.

Given the frequency with which I lose pencils, one might expect my supply to be rapidly dwindling. This is not, however, the case.

Enter today's grand realization: Pencils are a fabulous renewable resource.

What do I mean?

Only this: as quickly as I lose pencils, I seem also to be gaining them. And some of the ones I've come away with are more fun than the ones I started with. For example, although I originally filled my bag with plain yellow #2 pencils, today's assessment notes were taken with a lovely white and green "Happy Halloween" pencil.

It might bother me that so many of my pencils tend to find new homes so easily - if not for the fact that I keep coming away with others to replace them.

Like I said, a fabulous renewable resource.

thirty two.

Saturday marked the turning of an era, or at least the reaching of an annual milestone, in my boyfriend's life. Twenty six years previous, his mother, bless her soul, had borne him into this world, no doubt hoping for a well-behaved easygoing son: the kind who seems a blessing and a delight every single moment.

Twenty six years later, it is no small matter to celebrate his continued existence, particularly given his propensity for semi-harrowing adventure and fondness for that which can be made to explode. And so, celebrate we did!

One of his favorite foods (quite possibly his most favorite in the whole entire world) is blueberries. Coincidentally, blueberry season in this region of the continent tends to begin in mid to late June and extend a good way into July. (Head up to New York if you want to find blueberries in August.)

Be not surprised, therefore, dear readers, to hear that I spent a good chunk of time last week researching and calling farms which purported to host pick your own blueberries. Eventually, I settled on "Fred + III," a family-owned and interestingly named patch located in Pemberton, New Jersey. When I called Fred on Friday afternoon, he assured me that his blueberries were in season and ready for picking, despite the catastrophic thunder storm which had swept through our region the day before.

So, plans were made: to depart early on Saturday morning, to bring along some other Molecular Bio-type friends, to take our largest empty tupperware containers, to pick fabulous lovely sweet blueberries. Saturday morning dawned bright and beautiful; as soon as the friends arrived, we were off on our adventure, heading east toward the excitement which awaited us.

We found Fred's place easily enough; he turned out to be quite a sweet and helpful old codger. Despite never having picked their own fruit before, our friends took to it fairly quickly. The bushes were so hung with berries that two of us could work down the same row and barely seem to make a dent: Fred has an abundant crop this year! Before long, we had each filled a can, then another, each holding four pounds.

By the time we called it quits, dustier and slightly browner than when we arrived, the four of us had picked thirteen cans worth of berries. At $1.25 per pound, significantly less than any fresh fruit available in the city, how could we not take advantage of this opportunity?

Our friends took home their share, leaving us with the thirty two (yes, 32) pounds of blueberries we bought from Fred that morning. All of Saturday afternoon was spent sorting and preserving these delicacies. Our freezer and fridge were feeling quite hospitable, and I haven't gone many hours without eating blueberries since waking up on Saturday morning.

Thirty two pounds worth of blueberries should provide an abundance of blueberry-enhanced dishes: muffins, pie, cobbler, jam, coffee cake, smoothies, just to name a few. We want to try some more exotic recipes: cold blueberry soup amongst them.

Mostly, though, those thirty two pounds hold out the simple promise of a sweet blue winter. If you come to visit, you might just get a warm muffin...

Out My Window

I'm sitting at my desk drinking a "made from scratch" blueberry oj coconut rum smoothie, greatly appreciative for the cool breeze created by a fan set on high. My computer sits in front of the pile of books I'll be teaching from this week; lesson plans, assessment sheets, and an abundant supply of colored markers spill across the remainder of the black faux wood.

My desk is tucked into a corner of our front room: the left corner, where I sit now, backs up against one of our street-side windows. As I sat down to write this evening, intending to blog about this or that story from my life, I thought of a prompt I once heard from a friend: to write about what one sees out one's window everyday. Over the past year, as I've transitioned from place to place to yet another place, I've often reflected on the events, people, and images framed by my windows.

Now, as I once again settle in, with no intentions to leave on the near horizon, I catch myself contemplating this window - and what I see through its screen (for it's far too muggy to keep our windows closed).

We live on a quiet street, Buckingham Place, a home for royalty if one slips an extra vowel. Tucked between 44th and 45th, one-way traffic only, it's all of one block long. The kind of street that you likely only know exists if you live here, or know someone who lives here, or just like to walk around West Philly and discover all the hidden streets. The kind of street that doesn't cater to emergency vehicles or public transportation or any kind of acceleration.

There is a tree directly out my window and electrical lines strung with sneakers. One of these days, I'll probably have something very important to procrastinate: those shoes must eventually be counted (or perhaps photographed). Through the branches and leaves, the other side of the street looms, every house the same as ours - and yet, not. Built identical, the buildings are now old and each much proud of its own particular character. Each has a front porch; this is the kind of street where people sit on their porches, have parties on their porches, keep strange statues on their porches, even philosophize on their porches. I don't know most of my neighbors, but I am acquainted with the homeless man who does know all of them, and who often sleeps on one or another porch.

My boyfriend calls it a hippie street - and then tells me that I fit in perfectly. Something about my flowing skirts and eccentric jewelry: we live on a street where drummers and landscapers and writers all seem to sip from the fount of creativity. Some nights there enters through my window a cool breeze, a twist of melody, the murmur of lives lived.

Through my window, I glimpse my life.

OMM!

Compliments of a rising first grader in one of my classes today, my new favorite exclamation: "Oh my mother!"

Now, I tend to find it humorous when four and five year olds exclaim, "Oh my goodness!" (even more so if it doesn't fit the context...). But "Oh my mother!"? I must admit that, despite the fact that my younger friends tease me about being "old," my twenty four and a half years of existence had never blessed me with this lovely phrasing.

So, here's the context:

We read two books in the first week's lesson for the rising first grade class: Morris the Moose (the virtues of which I clearly outlined in a previous post!) and We're Going on a Bear Hunt. The former book gives my students a chance to practice reading on their own, with support from whatever adult is attending the class with them. The latter, however, I have the pleasure of reading aloud to the group, and then, right at the end of the class time, acting out.

This week's dramatization was grand: eleven bear hunters and I marched around the room, swishing through tall grass, stumbling through a dark and gloomy forest, and tiptoeing into a scary cave! Of course, once we found the bear in his cave, we hightailed it back home - and under the covers - and declared our bear hunt over. Admittedly, some of my more, shall we say, excitable young gentlemen wanted to continue "hunting," but I sent them home instead.

Even before we began the dramatization however, a very small - and usually shy - young lady made my day! It was during my first reading of the story, which I may have dramatized a bit myself. The bear hunting family had swished through the tall grass, squished to the other side of the oozy mud, and even splashed across a river. But then, they happened upon a "swirling, whirling snowstorm". And, as one of my students had so wisely pointed out earlier, they weren't wearing coats: "The baby is even in her jammies!"

At this point, from the front row, totally out of the blue, a small voice exclaimed, "Oh my mother!"

And I tried not to giggle too much as I shivered my way through the howling wind and swirling snow.