Reflections on the Teche

Anyone who has never made a mistake has never tried anything new.
Albert Einstein

The hand of an inspired young artist

 The brush strokes of the professional are textured, nuanced, and sage.
Sarah Brown Wessling, 2010 National Teacher of the Year

I hear this advice, “Give yourself permission to fail,” but I don’t listen. I don’t really think of myself as a perfectionist, but when I fail, I beat myself up about it, especially when it involves the feelings of a child.
You guessed it, I made a mistake, and I am writing here to admit it and try to come to grips with it myself.
This week I directed the 4th annual Camp Genesis Art Camp at the Episcopal Church of the Epiphany. The Art Camp was the genius of my husband, Jeff. One night at dinner I said, “I want to do a fundraiser for Solomon House, but I want to do something that uses my talents.”
Jeff said two words, “Art Camp.” Thus the idea was born, and all I had to do was put it together. And today, after 4 years, we have a successful camp each summer serving 30 kids and profiting close to $4000 for Solomon House. I am proud of this accomplishment and grateful to all the wonderful people who have helped to make this idea a reality and such a positive experience.
Unfortunately, whenever you do something new and risky, mistakes will happen. My mother-in-law likes to quote former Governor Mike Foster that in any endeavor, 15% will go wrong.
For the last three art camps, we have held an auction on the Sunday following. I encourage the students all week to donate artwork to the auction. This can be very tough for some kids because they love their work. They want to show it to Mom and Dad and Grandma and don’t want to part with it. I understand this and give them the option with much praise for their generosity if they do give an item. Sometimes, they give us the work they don’t like because they are kids. This year two of them gave us this sort of work, incomplete and kinda unattractive, but, Goddoggit, that was no excuse for what I allowed to happen. I let the helpers re-do their work. Big mistake. It even goes against my philosophy of teaching. I guess that’s why it hurt so much when one of the art teachers told me how upset the student was that his work had been altered.
This feeling of having disappointed a child and having undermined their own sense of giving and accomplishment tears me up. I know I’ll never do it again. I know that everyone makes mistakes, and I am forgiven. And maybe even opening up my vulnerability in this public forum will help me deal with the pit of guilt in my gut.
I had the privilege last Friday to meet the National Teacher of the Year from 2010. She is gorgeous, inside and out. I wrote down many of her quotes, but one quote that I need to take to my heart today is, “Humility is at the center of great teaching.” Reflecting on your practice and knowing that you are not perfect leads to a passionate and wonderful teacher. That is the rainbow I will look for today.

A beautiful flower arrangement I received at the Educator Excellence Symposium banquet

Writing marathon: a secret garden

Magical Writing

This week I taught a writing camp with my friend and colleague, Stephanie Judice.  We had 16 students ranging in age from 9 to 17.  It was a wonderful week of writing.  I’ve been teaching writing camps for about 10 years, and each time I am amazed at how writing together creates magic.

There were many magical moments this week.  On Wednesday, we had our traditional writing marathon in downtown New Iberia.  This is always a highlight of the week, walking downtown with our journals in hand.  We met the kids in Bouligny Plaza.  Before we got started, I noticed two girls sitting on a bench with their journals open.  They were writing and talking about writing: “What word rhymes with light?”  No prompting, no instructions, just the practice of writing together. Magic

On Friday, our last day, I led a haiku competition.  I usually shy away from competition, but I thought that by the last day, these kids know each other.  It should be a safe environment to compete.  I was right.  Each child waved his/her hands in the air anxious to share and join the competition.  We voted, then upped the ante.  Now you have to write a couplet to go with the winning haiku.  We were engaging in an ancient practice of renga, making a poem from multiple haikus.  I felt joy watching the students write and beg to share.  The exercise did not produce a great poem, far from it.  “The earthly cow is not chow”  But it created an atmosphere of celebration, celebrating the art of writing.  Magic.

The last day ends traditionally with Author’s Chair, the final read-aloud for parents and guests.  This is the time when the light shines.  The students read with pride a piece of writing from the week.  It’s like graduation.  I feel pride in how much they have grown in just one week. 

At the end of our marathon writing, having written in Bouligny Plaza, along the bayou boardwalk, at the Shadows, in Books Along the Teche, in Victor’s cafeteria, in Epiphany Church, and finally stopping at A&E Gallery, I gathered the group together to create a collaborative poem.  Sometimes, not always, a miraculous poem emerges.  Each student contributed a line from their marathon writing as I called their names.  I didn’t choose the order; it was completely random, but again, magic happened and a beautiful poem emerged.  (see below)

A philosophy of the National Writing Project that I have embraced is the teacher of writing should be a writer herself.  I write alongside the students.  I show all my bumps along the way.  I model frustration and joy.  I am anxious to share alongside them.  We are writers together, falling in love with the words and each other.  Magic

Summer on a Cloud
(a Collaborative poem by Write your Way Writers)

Light is very bright,
undying beauty,
beautiful immortal memories,
thoughts in a bottle.
The lights are pretty and gold.
The sun is shining bright,
flows in blowing winds.
Humbled by this magnificent sight,
It should be kept in peace,
dancing, loving, looking, talking
-The first star-
The windy night is so bright.
Stained glass windows represent
the beauty of God.
Bluebirds sing a delightful song,
the stillness of this secret garden
beckons silently.

Writing side by side

Here I am outside a clothing shop on Myconos, one of the more touristy islands.

People are People

Since I’ve been home from Greece and a few times by email while on my trip, friends have expressed concern over the “riots”.  We certainly gained a clearer understanding of media hype.  We were only in Athens twice, once to port and tour the Acropolis and the other for our last night before boarding the plane home.  On the second trip, our tour guide drove us past the square near Parliament where the demonstrations were being held.  It resembled a festival ground in Louisiana with its handmade signs and tents.  When we passed, it was midday and everyone around was going about their normal everyday activities.  We passed a TV reporter standing in front of a burned kiosk.  Our guide told us about malicious plants, possibly police, who were inciting more fear and violence than the protestors.  Usually, these demonstrations consist of chanting and obscene gestures.  We did not witness any unrest.  Actually, quite the opposite. 

We did learn a few obscene Greek gestures: the hand raised as in a wide high five is equivalent to the middle finger in our society, and the pointer finger beckoning someone to “come see” is a rude gesture in Greece. 

On the islands, I especially enjoyed visiting with shop keepers.  (Yes, I did my share of shopping!) Most of them were very friendly and grateful for our presence.  They loved to tell stories.  From Thomas, I learned about the mythology of Athena.  Her symbol of the blue eye is very popular.  It symbolizes her wisdom, also symbolized by the owl, and her instruction to keep your eyes open.  In Turkey, the blue eye was called the evil eye, and it is usually hung near the entrance of the home (or in the front of the bus) to keep evil out. 

From Louise, I learned about the Greek key.  This design is on purses and scarves.  It is also seen on ancient ruins.  The open design symbolizes a handshake that says “my home is your home.”

When we would purchase things from a shop, often the owner would add in lagniappe, a little gift.  Our guide, Katia, explained that they were all very desperate and grateful for your patronage.  Greece’s economy is in trouble, but the people still practice kindness and gentleness. 

One of the perks of an Overseas Adventure Travel trip is the home visit.  We had two of them, one on the island of Naxos, and the other in the mountains of Meteora.  Both visits included ouzo toasts and ethnic food.  On Naxos, the soil is good for potatoes, so we had delicious smothered potatoes.  In Meteora, the couple spoke English and shared stories of their family’s survival in WWII and the present crisis. 

People are people, wherever you are.  People care for each other and share their stories in order to make a connection, even in Greece.

Waiting my turn to taste pistachios, grown and sold on Aegina, our last island visit.

God has a plan for you

Twice this week someone has told me that God has a plan for me.  When I responded, “So what’s this plan?” I was met with a mischievous grin as if they knew something I don’t know.  Not fair.  If God really has a plan for me, shouldn’t He be talking to me about it?  What’s the plan?  Am I playing along or resisting? 

I’m not so sure there is this big master planning going on in the Kingdom of God.  I find it easier to believe that if I keep an open mind and open heart, I am available for God’s work in the world.

This school year I was assigned a young kindergartner to watch over in the cafeteria during breakfast.  Then I would walk him to his classroom daily.  This little boy was African American with the big dark eyes and a round face.  When he smiled, his whole face lit up.  He won my heart easily.  I’m not sure what he thought of this unusual partnership, but I looked forward to being with him and letting him hold my pinky finger as we walked to class.

The reason I was assigned this little boy was he was a trouble maker.  One of his many behavior problems was that he would wander the halls and not go to his assigned classroom.  I heard other talk about his behavior.  His mouth was apparently filthy.  He was violent.  He was stubborn.  His home life was poor. 

Only on one occasion did I have a struggle with him.  That morning he arrived angry and showed this by tearing up a box of Kleenex from the bus and throwing it on the ground.  I tried to talk to him and reason with him, but he fought with me.  I held him tightly and let him kick and wiggle.  Eventually, his teacher came for him.  I wish I could’ve understood his behavior and helped in some constructive way, but I felt helpless.

Is God really using us even when we feel helpless?  Does God have a master plan for everyone, even the weak, lonely, and uncared for?  I’m not sure if I helped my charge, but I hope he carried away a sense of love and hope.  In the midst of my frustration, I wrote the following poem.   

BD*

I take you home in my school bag
                to unravel the reasons
                                you are who you are?
               

Who can I blame?
                your mother,
                                society, God?

Who is there to hold you when you cry?
                To wash your knee when you fall?
                                To feed you cereal in the morning?

Your brother finds some stale chips in a bag,
                serves them in a fractured bowl,
                                                and says eat,

My body is given to you
                so that you may live
                                in a world that cannot save you,

A world so wrapped up in itself
                no one sees you
                                for who you could be.

No one sees Jesus here.

*BD is a term used to mean “behavior disorder.”

Spring surprised me this year.  Don’t know why.  Guess I’ve been too busy.  All of a sudden a few weeks ago, my yard burst  into blossoms.  This weekend I am finally having a moment to look out the window, something I should do more often.  The colors of green are like a green rainbow, colors I could not recreate on a paint palate.  As spring was happening, I wrote two rather quick poems.  They were quick like the spring to me.  The first is a prose stream of consciousness, the second I stole lines and form from one of my favorite poets, Billy Collins.  I hope you enjoy my musings over spring.

Spring Happens

It is here; spring happens, ready or not, car washes on every corner, growing crowds at the baseball fields, everyone walks their dogs in the park, go for a ride with the top down, hear the birds chirp-chitter-chatter, smell the flowers blooming; azaleas, bridal wreath, wisteria, sweet olive, and I didn’t have to plant a thing or weed or trim, they just came like bursts of fireworks on the Fourth of July, lighting up my world, surprising me when I raise the blinds.  Spring happens, no preparation, no wait-a-minute, here it is…wake up!

Burst into Spring

                **After Billy Collins, Today

If ever there was a spring day so perfect,
so stirred up by a cool crisp wind

that you wanted to breathe more often
to taste the wisteria blossoms,

and throw open all the doors,
lift them clear off the hinges,

a day so bright the pink azaleas
pop open like a birthday balloon bouquet,

seemed so delightful that you felt like
running naked among them,

released from all inhibitions taking flight
outstretched arms playing airplane,

so you could fly on steady wings
balanced for lift and drinking nectar,

yes, you can imagine it,
today is just that kind of day.

Growing up a southern girl in Jackson, Ms in the 60’s and 70’s was not anything special or unusual.  At least that’s what I thought.  I thought it was more exciting to be an LSU tiger and to live on the bayou among cypress trees and alligators.  I have willingly embraced the culture of south Louisiana. 

But this weekend I have taken a tourist’s trip back to my hometown.  I joined my Berry Queens on their annual trip to the Sweet Potato Queen’s Weekend.  Wow! What fun!  Like Mardi Gras on State Street.  I actually witnessed a New Orleans style second line and port-a-potties dressed up like queens.  The area known as Fondren has become an artist community of boutiques and restaurants preserving the old 60s style store fronts from my childhood.  There’s a row that is now known as The Help Row because it will be seen in the movie “The Help” due out this fall.  (If you haven’t read the book yet, read it.)

I was on a quest for a coffee, still nursing a slight hangover from the first night’s partying.  I walked into a coffee house named the Steaming Beans located in an old house with a front porch and wood floors.  When I walked in, I attracted stares from a man at the counter.  OK, I was wearing my Berry Queen t-shirt, a short jean skirt with a strawberry belt, and snake skin “Goodwill” cowboy boots, but compared to the night before when I wore a lipstick red wig, I thought I looked fairly normal.  This guy looked at me like “Where did you come from?” 

I thought, “Who are you to stare at me?” This man had on black leather, cropped, pointy-toe boots with big brass buckles, a large black leather “man purse” with chains, and his hair was pulled up in a bun with highlights of pink and purple.  But he was obviously a regular customer and I was a stranger.

Later Saturday evening, the Berry Queens attended the first annual Zippity Do Dah parade in Fondren.  My high school alma mater led the parade.  I shouted, “Go Murrah Mustangs!” and later hugged one of the dance team girls congratulating their performance.  Not only did I enjoy a weekend of dress-up with Berry girlfriends, I also enjoyed seeing my town through new eyes.  I became a stranger in my own hometown.

For many people, the National Writing Project is a onetime institute for professional development.  But for some, it is a journey of discovery, nurturer of friendships, and a way of life.   Fifteen years ago, I went through the Summer Institute for the National Writing Project of Acadiana.  This experienced changed my life.  I found a philosophy of teaching I could call my own.  I found a group of people who believed in education. And I found a writer in me. 

Through my involvement in NWP, I have found many lifelong friends, mentors, and writing coaches.  I have worked with the same writing group for more than 10 years.  We have learned from each other, grown with each other, and supported each other. 

Through my involvement with this model of teachers teaching teachers, I have found empowerment to become the best teacher I could be.  I pursued a Masters in gifted education.  I was able to tackle the process of becoming a National Board Certified Teacher.  I have given presentations in cities such as Albuquerque, New Mexico, Philadelphia, PA, and Little Rock, AK.  I have published articles and poems in national journals.  The door to teacher leadership is open to me by NWP.

In the last eight years, I have led writing contests and youth writing camps for students.  Through these activities, I have passed on the “I am a writer” feeling.  I have given students encouragement to believe in themselves and to become the best they can be. 

President Obama has signed a bill that would eliminate funding for the National Writing Project.    In a statement on March 6, 2011, Sharon Washington, the executive director of NWP said, “This decision puts in grave jeopardy a nationwide network of 70,000 teachers who, through 200 university-based Writing Project sites, provide local leadership for innovation and deliver localized, high-quality professional development to other educators across the country in all states, across subjects and grades. In the last year alone, these leaders provided services to over 3,000 school districts to raise student achievement in writing.” 

I am one teacher in a world of thousands who have found a home with the National Writing Project.  We have found a group that pushes each other to be professionals in a field that is failing.  Together we write for a cause.  Writing matters!

Last night I watched a program on LPB featuring a Boston high school.  Their test scores were falling, failure rate was high, and there was little going for this school.  What turned it around?  Literacy: A program of writing across the curriculum.  Today, a Mexican American girl from this school will be the first in her family to attend college, and all because she was taught how to write.  Writing saves!

If the federal funding for NWP fails, it will not destroy the National Writing Project.  For 20 years, NWP has been an authorized national professional development program.  NWP will survive, I have little doubt.  Writing survives!

Writing marathon for Yeah, You Write! youth writing camp

Redbud at Center St. Elementary School

Worry…Panic…Fear

“So do not worry about tomorrow; for tomorrow will care for itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.”
Matthew 6:34 New American Standard Bible

I had my first panic attack last week.  It happened at school, of all places.  I woke up with a headache, so I decided not to go to exercise…first mistake.   Then right before I left for the day, I found pee at the back door.  (Sammy, the cat, is getting old and doesn’t use the litter box much anymore.)  I had to frantically clean the mess, putting me in a rush, an angry rush at that.  When I got to school, I went straight to the cafeteria where I have breakfast duty.  There my headache turned into a woozy, dizzy feeling.  I started to think about what would happen if I fainted right there in front of all the kids, the fatal mistake.  I left the cafeteria and went to the teacher’s lounge.  If I was going to faint, I did not want to be alone in my classroom.  When I walked in, I saw two kind teacher-friends.  That did it.  I told them I felt faint, went to the sofa, and started crying and shaking uncontrollably.  After a few minutes I could verbalize that I thought I was having a panic attack.  The teachers stayed with me, calming me, telling me it would all be OK.  Eventually I pulled myself together.  Another teacher-friend offered an ice pack while another offered me a Xanax she had in her purse.  I didn’t take the latter offer.

After a call to my doctor, I calmed down.  He told me to go about my regular day so I wouldn’t focus on “what’s wrong with me.”  I took his advice.  I felt tired and still had the headache most of the day, but I remained calm.  What caused this, I don’t really know.  The nurse at school suggested that the rushing and anger over the cat pee must’ve made my adrenaline kick in high gear leading to the attack.  Who knows?  I do know that I don’t want to ever have that happen again, but I also know that, if it does, I am not alone.  I live and work in a supportive environment.

A Google search told me that one out of every 75 people worldwide will experience a panic attack some time in their lifetime.  On Sunday, Deacon Diane Moore preached on worry, the Gospel reading.  She said that 118 million people in the US take some sort of anxiety medication.  I hope I don’t become one of them; although, if I continue to experience these attacks, I will definitely sign up for drugs.  But for now, I plan to focus on the beauty of spring.  I also plan to rely on the main point of Diane’s sermon…trust: Trust that God will be there.  I know bad things happen to good people, but with God on my side, as well as supportive and kind colleagues and friends, I’ll be fine.

“If God gives such attention to the appearance of wildflowers—most of which are never even seen—don’t you think he’ll attend to you, take pride in you, do his best for you?  Steep your life in God-reality, God-initiative, God-provisions.  Don’t worry about missing out.  You’ll find all your everyday human concerns will be met.”

 The Message// Remix: The Bible in Contemporary Language, Eugene H. Peterson

Pelican don’t die
We want you to stay alive
We will protect you

By Matthew, first grade

When I started this blog, my intention was to write life reflections but not necessarily about my teaching, but today I am making an exception.  If you have spent any time with me lately, you have likely heard a Matthew story or two.

Matthew is new to my gifted classroom.  I started servicing him in January.  He is the first first grade student I have ever had.  He displays many characteristics of young giftedness; He has a focused interest in one subject, sharks, and he speaks with the vocabulary of a 17 year old rather than a 7 year old.  The first day Matthew and I worked together I wanted him to write in his new journal (decorated by him in shark pictures).  I asked him to draw a picture and make a caption about a story we had just read.  He said,”Since you are teaching me about writing captions, then I should write about sharks because I know a lot about sharks.”

Precocious, to say the least, but Matthew is also a joy!  He bounds into the room daily ready for the next learning adventure.  Recently, we were preparing entries for the Language Arts Festival writing contest.  In the 1^st-3^rd category of poetry, haiku was an option.  Matthew said, “But I don’t even know what a haiku is.  How can I write one?”  So, of course, this writing teacher, taught him how to write one.  I explained the 5-7-5 syllabic pattern and asked Matthew to look out of the classroom window to observe nature.  Our school is positioned in the midst of a sugarcane field and with this being winter, no cane is growing.  The bare land stretched out toward the horizon.  And Matthew wrote beautifully about the clover blowing in the breeze and saying goodbye to winter.  I’m not sure yet if it’s a contest winner, but to Matthew, he became the instant “king of haiku.” 

In class with Matthew are Kaylie, a 4^th grader, and Alexis, a 6^th grader.  They also enjoy Matthew.  When he was reading a 6^th grade leveled nonfiction book about big cats, he would read aloud loudly.  This never disturbed the girls. When he came to a word he didn’t know, he spelled it out and one of us would tell him what it was.  We are a classroom of learners.

The girls have been participating on Voices on the Gulf, a website set up originally in response to the Gulf oil spill yet has evolved into a space for students to interact about place-based inquiry.  My students have been active on the site all year, but Matthew hadn’t posted anything yet, and he was itching to, so when he wrote another haiku during writing time about a pelican, I said, “This would make a great post on Voices on the Gulf.”  Matthew quickly went to the art cabinet and set about painting an illustration.  The result was this adorable pelican with outstretched wings and the poem above. 

The day after I posted Matthew’s pelican poem, he had a response.  The students get very excited about these responses.  Matthew’s responder dubbed him “Pele-man.”  Matthew replied to his anonymous responder, “Thanks I’m touched very touched. this is how i write haiku, i am relly confIdent and look out my classroom window and write down the things I see. Then choos words for my haiku. well that is all I have to say. your friend, pele-man”     You can view the entire post with comments at http://www.voicesonthegulf.org/discussion/pelican

Last week, I told Matthew that he brought joy to our classroom.  He said, “Thank you. I wonder if Alexis thinks so.”  I asked Alexis, and she turned to Matthew with a big grin, “Oh, yes, Matthew, more than words can say.”

A Love Story

Happy Valentine’s Day!

This day is not the biggest celebration in our family.  When the girls were younger, Jeff was in charge of getting them a card and some chocolate.  Now he practices a must-be-present-to-win policy, so only Maggie and I got chocolate this year, Godiva no less.

I count myself blessed, though, in the Valentine’s Day department.  I married my best friend 28.5 years ago.  Who would’ve thought at not quite 21 years old I knew anything about love, much less how to create a lasting relationship?  But I will never forget my mother’s advice (she and my dad celebrated 50 years this past summer.)  She said that the couple that grows together, stays together.  She drew two lines with her hands like the two lanes of a 4-lane highway.  “The two of you travel side by side.”  I believe that is the secret and the gift of my relationship with Jeff.

Last week when Jeff and I were out to dinner, we passed a table where a couple sat on the same side of the booth feeding each other French fries.  Jeff noticed that they had ordered the same entrée.  He said, “We don’t order the same thing.  I like to go kayaking and you like writing.” My Valentine’s card today read “A pinch of you, a dash of me,” underneath a photo of a salt and pepper shaker.  Together we balance each other, compliment each other.  We are different, and that’s OK.  As long as we support each other’s choices, talents, and passions, we will continue to grow together on this life-love road.