"How is it," one of my classmates has been asking this week, "that we're taking four classes, but we have five exams?"
That's what you get with an accelerated Master's program--New Math. But sweet, sweet freedom shall soon be ours. As of this writing, I have one take-home exam and one in-class exam to go, and then I'll be on Christmas break from my elementary education classes. I'll still be in the second grade classroom, however, watching the excitement level of seven-year-olds increase exponentially as the calendar marches toward the 25th. (Just the other day I heard one little girl--not in my class; this was in a different setting--ecstatically singing, "Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way/Santa Claus is coming to a HAP-PY NEW YEAR...")
But--sugarplum visions be darned--the learning must go on. I've been put in charge of teaching spelling. Every week we work on new words in a list of 20 provided by our spelling textbook. Last week we had words with the long "i" sound--"try" and "cry" and "hide" and "bike" and "housefly"--like that. Now, my charges didn't do too well on the spelling test previous to this. If you know me at all you will have correctly guessed I took this personally. "SPELLING! Come ON! No kid is leaving Miss Pancella's class not knowing how to SPELL!" etc. etc. So I was quick to drum into those little brains the pattern: when they heard the long "i" sound at the end of a word, it was always spelled with a "y": "cry," "try," "pry." When they heard the long "i" sound in the middle of the word, it was spelled with an "i," then a consonant, and then a silent "e" at the end: "hide," "bike."
But--the last spelling word on the list? "Nylon."
On Tuesday of that week I cut squares of fabric out of a pair of pantyhose and brought them into class. I passed one out to each table and asked, "Does anyone have a guess about what this is?"
"A thong?" one little voice piped up.
Okay! I thought. No more guesses! "It's a fabric called 'nylon," I said. "This word is not going to follow our spelling pattern, but there's a good reason for that. See, 'nylon' is a made-up material. You can't find it in nature. It was created in a laboratory out of chemicals."
One little girl dropped her fabric square abruptly at this point.
"It was created to be very stretchy," I continued. "So stretchy that the inventors said it could stretch from...New York...to London." I wrote "NY" and "LON" on the board.
A chorus of voices: "Ohhhh!" And once again, as I am so often, I was grateful I'd become a fan of The Nylons--the only reason I'd learned that particular bit of trivia.
And by the way--the class all did very well on the spelling test at the end of the week, and almost everyone spelled "nylon" right.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Saturday, November 14, 2009
How the president is, and is not, like a soccer coach
Here's a li'l story about my recent adventures in a second grade classroom...
Someone from my accelerated Master's program came to observe me giving a social studies lesson. The lesson had to have something about reading or writing integrated into it, so I decided to craft the lesson around an issue of TIME For Kids magazine. The cover story on the issue I chose was on our new Supreme Court justice Sonia Sotomayor. (I like a challenge.)
I had a little time earlier in the day, before my observer came, so I asked students if they'd ever heard of the Supreme Court. A few could tell me a little bit about court and lawyers, including the tidbit that lawyers cost money. I also asked if they knew what "supreme" meant. I said they'd probably heard it in reference to pizza, and asked them to please not think of the Supreme Court as the Pizza Court.
As I was gathering this background info, one boy raised his hand and asked, "Do they have a president on the other side of the world?" I said this was an excellent question. We talked a bit about different names for heads of government: presidents, kings, queens, prime ministers. They wanted to put "mayor" on that list, and one student asked me if there was a king in Rome. (Not to hear Caesar tell it!)
When lesson time came, I decided before we even read the magazine that we should figure something out about the three branches of government in the hopes of pinning an abstract concept like "Supreme Court" onto something concrete. From prior conversations with these second graders, I knew what interested them most (besides SpongeBob). "Who in here likes sports?" I asked. Everyone in the class raised his or her hand. "Who is on a sports team?" Not every hand this time, but a substantial number. I asked one girl what her grandfather did for her soccer team (again, I knew the answer in advance because of a prior conversation).
"He's our coach," she said.
We went into what a coach does, and then I wrote "Coach" on the board.
"And what do we call the person who decides what happens if the soccer ball goes out of play?"
When the class gave me the answer, I wrote "Referee" on the board.
"And then there must be some group of people who came up with the rules of soccer and who can decide, say, if there should be 20 people out on the field instead of 18." Not knowing the name of this shadowy organization, I put "People who make up rules" on the board.
Then I explained that these were like the branches of our government. The president is like the coach, except less likely to take you personally out for pizza; the referee is like the Supreme Court, and the people who make rules, Congress.
I think they got it, but even if they didn't, at least it was an introduction to the concept, which is what an awful lot of second grade is about.
Someone from my accelerated Master's program came to observe me giving a social studies lesson. The lesson had to have something about reading or writing integrated into it, so I decided to craft the lesson around an issue of TIME For Kids magazine. The cover story on the issue I chose was on our new Supreme Court justice Sonia Sotomayor. (I like a challenge.)
I had a little time earlier in the day, before my observer came, so I asked students if they'd ever heard of the Supreme Court. A few could tell me a little bit about court and lawyers, including the tidbit that lawyers cost money. I also asked if they knew what "supreme" meant. I said they'd probably heard it in reference to pizza, and asked them to please not think of the Supreme Court as the Pizza Court.
As I was gathering this background info, one boy raised his hand and asked, "Do they have a president on the other side of the world?" I said this was an excellent question. We talked a bit about different names for heads of government: presidents, kings, queens, prime ministers. They wanted to put "mayor" on that list, and one student asked me if there was a king in Rome. (Not to hear Caesar tell it!)
When lesson time came, I decided before we even read the magazine that we should figure something out about the three branches of government in the hopes of pinning an abstract concept like "Supreme Court" onto something concrete. From prior conversations with these second graders, I knew what interested them most (besides SpongeBob). "Who in here likes sports?" I asked. Everyone in the class raised his or her hand. "Who is on a sports team?" Not every hand this time, but a substantial number. I asked one girl what her grandfather did for her soccer team (again, I knew the answer in advance because of a prior conversation).
"He's our coach," she said.
We went into what a coach does, and then I wrote "Coach" on the board.
"And what do we call the person who decides what happens if the soccer ball goes out of play?"
When the class gave me the answer, I wrote "Referee" on the board.
"And then there must be some group of people who came up with the rules of soccer and who can decide, say, if there should be 20 people out on the field instead of 18." Not knowing the name of this shadowy organization, I put "People who make up rules" on the board.
Then I explained that these were like the branches of our government. The president is like the coach, except less likely to take you personally out for pizza; the referee is like the Supreme Court, and the people who make rules, Congress.
I think they got it, but even if they didn't, at least it was an introduction to the concept, which is what an awful lot of second grade is about.
Monday, October 19, 2009
School notes, mid-October edition
I woke up early this morning. I try to be up early when I can--I like to go out for a morning walk--but this morning when I checked the forecast, I elected to go curl up in front of the space heater instead.
This last week of school, in terms of the courses I'm taking, has been the sort of experience that makes you understand how one can get addicted to stimulants. (Don't worry; this is not a confession. I never resorted to anything harder than Mountain Dew.) I am not someone who has developed, how shall we call them, "good" study habits. You know the ones--like doing a little bit of work every day instead of waiting for the last moment. And last week a couple of my classes came to the end of their eight-week span, so I had something like six assignments to complete and turn in. (And that may be lower than the actual number, because I got tired just trying to remember them all and stopped at six.)
Now, part of the reason my work had piled up was that during this term I took trips out of town two weekends in a row. The first was to a family reunion for my father's side of the family. No way was I going to miss a gathering of 125 happy Italians and hangers-on. The next was the first-ever academic conference on U2, which just so happened to take place on the same weekend just down the road from a U2 concert, can you imagine that? Next to Italian relatives, U2 fans are my favorite group of people to be around, so no way was I missing this, either. But all of this gallivanting did lead to my assignments stacking up such that they were taking turns joyfully jumping off the high dive, so to speak. The good news is that everything due last week has been turned in and my next round of classes do not begin until, oh, Tuesday.
As for my adventures in observation at the grade school--it's been the educational home of the walking wounded. You may have heard that there's some nasty sickness floating around. Grade schools being disease factories to begin with, it may not surprise you to learn that on days last week up to eight kids (in a class of twenty-one) were absent. (One of my fellow intern teachers had ten kids out of a class of twenty one day.) Interestingly, a different set of kids was gone each day; this did make it easier to help the previously-absent set catch up with their work, but it also meant there was little point moving on with lessons to cover new material.
And now I must dash to get to school to begin the new week, but I will leave you with this anecdote--the seven-year-olds had an assignment in handwriting to write a sentence about the continent they live on. One little fella decided he was going to be clever and wrote, "I like North America so much, I don't know where to begin."
This last week of school, in terms of the courses I'm taking, has been the sort of experience that makes you understand how one can get addicted to stimulants. (Don't worry; this is not a confession. I never resorted to anything harder than Mountain Dew.) I am not someone who has developed, how shall we call them, "good" study habits. You know the ones--like doing a little bit of work every day instead of waiting for the last moment. And last week a couple of my classes came to the end of their eight-week span, so I had something like six assignments to complete and turn in. (And that may be lower than the actual number, because I got tired just trying to remember them all and stopped at six.)
Now, part of the reason my work had piled up was that during this term I took trips out of town two weekends in a row. The first was to a family reunion for my father's side of the family. No way was I going to miss a gathering of 125 happy Italians and hangers-on. The next was the first-ever academic conference on U2, which just so happened to take place on the same weekend just down the road from a U2 concert, can you imagine that? Next to Italian relatives, U2 fans are my favorite group of people to be around, so no way was I missing this, either. But all of this gallivanting did lead to my assignments stacking up such that they were taking turns joyfully jumping off the high dive, so to speak. The good news is that everything due last week has been turned in and my next round of classes do not begin until, oh, Tuesday.
As for my adventures in observation at the grade school--it's been the educational home of the walking wounded. You may have heard that there's some nasty sickness floating around. Grade schools being disease factories to begin with, it may not surprise you to learn that on days last week up to eight kids (in a class of twenty-one) were absent. (One of my fellow intern teachers had ten kids out of a class of twenty one day.) Interestingly, a different set of kids was gone each day; this did make it easier to help the previously-absent set catch up with their work, but it also meant there was little point moving on with lessons to cover new material.
And now I must dash to get to school to begin the new week, but I will leave you with this anecdote--the seven-year-olds had an assignment in handwriting to write a sentence about the continent they live on. One little fella decided he was going to be clever and wrote, "I like North America so much, I don't know where to begin."
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Ninety-seven, coal car, boxcar, caboose!
I'm working with a small group of second graders doing reading work for a half-hour. This week was my first week.
I have six second-graders in my group, two boys, four girls. One boy shows definite signs of wanting to be the small group clown. On Wednesday, I tried channeling his energy into more positive areas; I had him lead the group in some exercises in reading expressively. We also talked a bit about enunciation and pacing (one girl tends to rush). With all that in mind, I decided to bring in something special on Thursday.
I'd hinted about doing something cool, so when everybody saw the sheets of paper I passed out, they said, "Is that the fun thing?" But I instructed them to keep the pages turned to the back until we finished other activities.
Our small group clown dallied. I let everyone else who had finished turn the pages over while he continued to work. "If we don't get to the fun stuff because of you, the group's gonna be mad at you!" I warned. He picked up the pace.
At last he was done. I explained to the group that when I was just a little older than they are, I had discovered this poem and committed it to memory. I told them to pay attention to what happened as I recited it. They all had copies; I didn't, but our small group clown still thought I was cheating and looking at a page until I looked him dead in the eye as I rattled off my lines.
The poem was Crossing, by Philip Booth, and it goes like this:
"Stop Look Listen/as gate stripes swing down/count the cars hauling distance/upgrade through town:/warning whistle, bellclang,/engine eating steam/engineer waving/a fast freight dream:/B&M boxcar/boxcar again,/Frisco gondola/eight-nine-ten/Erie and Wabash,/Seabord, U.P.,/Pennsy tankcar,/twenty-two,three,/Phoebe Snow, B&O,/thirty-four,five,/Santa Fe cattle/ shipped alive/red cars yellow cars,/orange cars, black,/Youngstown steel/down to Mobile/on Rock Island track,/fifty-nine,sixty,/hoppers of coke,/Anaconda copper,/hotbox smoke,/eighty-eight,/red-ball freight,/Rio Grande,/Nickel Plate,/Hiawatha,/Lackawanna,/rolling fast/and loose,/ninety-seven,/coal car,/boxcar,/caboose!"
What happened, of course, was the poem sped up as the train sped up. "Do that again!" they said. This time I suggested they try reading along with me as I recited it. I asked them to guess how many cars were on the train; what was the last number and how many cars came after that?
They all took their copies with them. One little girl said, her eyes shining, "I'm going to take it home and memorize it this weekend and then I'll say it to you on Monday!"
I have six second-graders in my group, two boys, four girls. One boy shows definite signs of wanting to be the small group clown. On Wednesday, I tried channeling his energy into more positive areas; I had him lead the group in some exercises in reading expressively. We also talked a bit about enunciation and pacing (one girl tends to rush). With all that in mind, I decided to bring in something special on Thursday.
I'd hinted about doing something cool, so when everybody saw the sheets of paper I passed out, they said, "Is that the fun thing?" But I instructed them to keep the pages turned to the back until we finished other activities.
Our small group clown dallied. I let everyone else who had finished turn the pages over while he continued to work. "If we don't get to the fun stuff because of you, the group's gonna be mad at you!" I warned. He picked up the pace.
At last he was done. I explained to the group that when I was just a little older than they are, I had discovered this poem and committed it to memory. I told them to pay attention to what happened as I recited it. They all had copies; I didn't, but our small group clown still thought I was cheating and looking at a page until I looked him dead in the eye as I rattled off my lines.
The poem was Crossing, by Philip Booth, and it goes like this:
"Stop Look Listen/as gate stripes swing down/count the cars hauling distance/upgrade through town:/warning whistle, bellclang,/engine eating steam/engineer waving/a fast freight dream:/B&M boxcar/boxcar again,/Frisco gondola/eight-nine-ten/Erie and Wabash,/Seabord, U.P.,/Pennsy tankcar,/twenty-two,three,/Phoebe Snow, B&O,/thirty-four,five,/Santa Fe cattle/ shipped alive/red cars yellow cars,/orange cars, black,/Youngstown steel/down to Mobile/on Rock Island track,/fifty-nine,sixty,/hoppers of coke,/Anaconda copper,/hotbox smoke,/eighty-eight,/red-ball freight,/Rio Grande,/Nickel Plate,/Hiawatha,/Lackawanna,/rolling fast/and loose,/ninety-seven,/coal car,/boxcar,/caboose!"
What happened, of course, was the poem sped up as the train sped up. "Do that again!" they said. This time I suggested they try reading along with me as I recited it. I asked them to guess how many cars were on the train; what was the last number and how many cars came after that?
They all took their copies with them. One little girl said, her eyes shining, "I'm going to take it home and memorize it this weekend and then I'll say it to you on Monday!"
Sunday, September 13, 2009
My impressions of U2 in Chicago.
(Spoiler alert: this post mentions songs U2 are performing on their 360 Tour. If you are trying to avoid hearing about the setlist, you might want to skip the last few paragraphs.)
I had made plans months back to see this show, the opening night of the North American leg of U2's 360 Tour, but sold my ticket once I started thinking about all of my travel obligations this fall (which include going to see U2 in Raleigh, so it's not like I would miss them entirely). Then about a week before the show, I heard the ticket was up for grabs again. I thought, well, if it's going to go to all of that trouble to find its way back to me, who am I to stand in the way of Destiny? So I made some hotel reservations, talked to a Chicago-based friend about meeting her for dinner, and trundled up the highway.
Once I arrived--my first driving experience in Chicago, by the way, though it hardly counts because I basically exited Lake Shore Drive into a parking lot--I could see the top of the Claw, U2's massive stage set, peeking out over the stands of Soldier Field. I could also see the folks in the general admission line starting to go in. One friend had gotten there early that morning and reported 500 people in line at 6:15 am. (U2 hit the stage about fifteen hours after that.)
My Chicago friend and I had dinner at Valencia. We'd been searching for a place to eat and took the recommendation of a passing Chicagoan--she did not steer us wrong. We had gazpacho, I had sea bass with crabmeat and saffron butter, she had mussels drizzled with yumminess. Valencia also served pomegranate martinis, but I figured it wouldn't be smart to indulge in one of those. All in all, a lovely way to celebrate making it to Chicago.
We said our goodbyes, I joined the throng streaming into the stadium, and then I was in. I had a general admission ticket, but my first look at the Claw in all its glory was from up in the stands. I've heard folks say that you have to see it in person to appreciate the scale of this setup, and it's true. I'd seen lots of pictures but I was still well and truly gobsmacked. The legs stretched from one of the field to the other--a football field!
I'm gonna go off on a tangent here for a sec but stay with me. I've got a recording of a fake folk song, a parody of the genre, about the custom of hunting the wren. In the course of it one singer asks why anyone would hunt such a small bird: "It won't need much stuffing/I don't see the sense."
"Of course it's not big though," the other singer responds. "It's one of the salient features of wrens."
I bring this up because this week the Washington Post had a piece about this tour which basically criticized U2 for being ambitious. Reading it I found myself singing, "It's one of the salient features..." I mean, come on. Has the Post been paying any attention over the last 33 years?
One thing I will say for the article, however--the writer did manage to capture the Claw's unique presence: "When the band performs beneath this hulking piece of technology, it appears as if planet Earth has decided to sacrifice its highest-grossing Irish rock troupe to our new alien overlords."
As for the concert itself--I was near the "back" of the field (with a setup like this, it's hard to talk seriously about back or front) both because I wasn't on the field until opening act Snow Patrol were gone and because I wasn't interested in being in the crush of bodies at the "front."
When U2 took the stage and the screen high above us flickered to life, I was disoriented in a way I haven't heard anyone comment on as yet. Remember--I was in a football stadium, a filled football stadium, three-quarters of the way down the field or more, several thousand people in front of me, sky overhead. But the sound was crisp and clear and perfect, like I was in Sheldon Concert Hall, except way way louder.
I had known on an intellectual level that the whole point of designing the Claw was to get the speakers out of the way of everyone's sightlines. Now I took a good look at them. I counted eighteen speakers in a column, six columns across, two arrays like that (one on each side) between each leg. And the screen in the middle. The very convincing illusion provided by this mustered woofing and tweeting power is that it's the 50 foot tall Bono, Edge, Adam and Larry making all the noise, not their tiny counterparts far beneath. This messed with my head.
There's a very high percentage of songs performed from the three most recent albums. Once I realized this, I also realized that none of them have been played in a US stadium before--or indeed in a show specifically designed as a stadium show. And speaking of hearing things in a new way--I also realized I hadn't seen U2 live since moving to Cincinnati. My life is so, so different now; the connections I'm making to the songs are different. Not better or worse, just different. It was not something I consciously realized until I had put the "U2 concert" marker down on this part of my life.
It was an enthusiastic crowd--hey, it's Chicago, one of the top two places in the US to see U2, in my opinion--but it was still fun to watch the waves of "Huh?" roll through it when the band launched into a dance remix of "I'll Go Crazy If I Don't Go Crazy Tonight." People were dancing by the end, though.
During "Ultraviolet," I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned, expecting maybe one of the folks I knew who were attending the show. No--it was a guy I didn't know. "I love this song!" he said. I have him a thumbs up. There are worse encounters one can have with a random drunk guy.
There is much more I can talk about, but there is also being home, and sleep.
I had made plans months back to see this show, the opening night of the North American leg of U2's 360 Tour, but sold my ticket once I started thinking about all of my travel obligations this fall (which include going to see U2 in Raleigh, so it's not like I would miss them entirely). Then about a week before the show, I heard the ticket was up for grabs again. I thought, well, if it's going to go to all of that trouble to find its way back to me, who am I to stand in the way of Destiny? So I made some hotel reservations, talked to a Chicago-based friend about meeting her for dinner, and trundled up the highway.
Once I arrived--my first driving experience in Chicago, by the way, though it hardly counts because I basically exited Lake Shore Drive into a parking lot--I could see the top of the Claw, U2's massive stage set, peeking out over the stands of Soldier Field. I could also see the folks in the general admission line starting to go in. One friend had gotten there early that morning and reported 500 people in line at 6:15 am. (U2 hit the stage about fifteen hours after that.)
My Chicago friend and I had dinner at Valencia. We'd been searching for a place to eat and took the recommendation of a passing Chicagoan--she did not steer us wrong. We had gazpacho, I had sea bass with crabmeat and saffron butter, she had mussels drizzled with yumminess. Valencia also served pomegranate martinis, but I figured it wouldn't be smart to indulge in one of those. All in all, a lovely way to celebrate making it to Chicago.
We said our goodbyes, I joined the throng streaming into the stadium, and then I was in. I had a general admission ticket, but my first look at the Claw in all its glory was from up in the stands. I've heard folks say that you have to see it in person to appreciate the scale of this setup, and it's true. I'd seen lots of pictures but I was still well and truly gobsmacked. The legs stretched from one of the field to the other--a football field!
I'm gonna go off on a tangent here for a sec but stay with me. I've got a recording of a fake folk song, a parody of the genre, about the custom of hunting the wren. In the course of it one singer asks why anyone would hunt such a small bird: "It won't need much stuffing/I don't see the sense."
"Of course it's not big though," the other singer responds. "It's one of the salient features of wrens."
I bring this up because this week the Washington Post had a piece about this tour which basically criticized U2 for being ambitious. Reading it I found myself singing, "It's one of the salient features..." I mean, come on. Has the Post been paying any attention over the last 33 years?
One thing I will say for the article, however--the writer did manage to capture the Claw's unique presence: "When the band performs beneath this hulking piece of technology, it appears as if planet Earth has decided to sacrifice its highest-grossing Irish rock troupe to our new alien overlords."
As for the concert itself--I was near the "back" of the field (with a setup like this, it's hard to talk seriously about back or front) both because I wasn't on the field until opening act Snow Patrol were gone and because I wasn't interested in being in the crush of bodies at the "front."
When U2 took the stage and the screen high above us flickered to life, I was disoriented in a way I haven't heard anyone comment on as yet. Remember--I was in a football stadium, a filled football stadium, three-quarters of the way down the field or more, several thousand people in front of me, sky overhead. But the sound was crisp and clear and perfect, like I was in Sheldon Concert Hall, except way way louder.
I had known on an intellectual level that the whole point of designing the Claw was to get the speakers out of the way of everyone's sightlines. Now I took a good look at them. I counted eighteen speakers in a column, six columns across, two arrays like that (one on each side) between each leg. And the screen in the middle. The very convincing illusion provided by this mustered woofing and tweeting power is that it's the 50 foot tall Bono, Edge, Adam and Larry making all the noise, not their tiny counterparts far beneath. This messed with my head.
There's a very high percentage of songs performed from the three most recent albums. Once I realized this, I also realized that none of them have been played in a US stadium before--or indeed in a show specifically designed as a stadium show. And speaking of hearing things in a new way--I also realized I hadn't seen U2 live since moving to Cincinnati. My life is so, so different now; the connections I'm making to the songs are different. Not better or worse, just different. It was not something I consciously realized until I had put the "U2 concert" marker down on this part of my life.
It was an enthusiastic crowd--hey, it's Chicago, one of the top two places in the US to see U2, in my opinion--but it was still fun to watch the waves of "Huh?" roll through it when the band launched into a dance remix of "I'll Go Crazy If I Don't Go Crazy Tonight." People were dancing by the end, though.
During "Ultraviolet," I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned, expecting maybe one of the folks I knew who were attending the show. No--it was a guy I didn't know. "I love this song!" he said. I have him a thumbs up. There are worse encounters one can have with a random drunk guy.
There is much more I can talk about, but there is also being home, and sleep.
Monday, September 7, 2009
My first report card, as it were.
I have a Dr Pepper within reach, I've gotten my assignments completed for tomorrow and the day after, and in a little while I should begin my reading assignments for the rest of the week. It's the best possible time to catch you up on what the last couple of weeks have been like.
Our story so far: at the beginning of summer I enrolled in the College of Mount St. Joseph's Accelerated Master's Degree program for Inclusive Early Childhood, which will certify me to teach young'uns from 3 years old to 3rd grade, with an option to tack on an endorsement at the end to teach 4th and 5th grade as well. Two weeks ago, local public grade schools went into session. Part of our program is a period of observation in grade school classrooms, so my classmates and I fanned out across Cincinnati to kindergarten, first grade, second grade, third grade...
I haven't been in a grade school classroom since St. Thomas of Aquin closed its doors after my eighth grade graduation. Happily, I was paired with a mentor teacher with thirty years' experience (she taught one of the people teaching at her school now when she was in second grade!), and she has made me feel right at home. I'm in a second grade classroom with twenty-one children, with books and dry erase boards and math manipulatives and reward stickers and much, much more. At the start of the day one student is in charge of changing the calendar date to the correct one, and another gives us a weather report. We say the Pledge of Allegiance and try to follow proper protocol when we line up to go from one room to the next.
The first day was really, really tough--long and disorienting, and it didn't help that I knew I'd have my own graduate-level class to attend at the end of it. (I'm in the grade school from 7:30 in the morning until 2:45 in the afternoon, then I have class from 4 to 6:30. That's my Monday to Thursday schedule; on Fridays I have one 5 1/2 hour class and no observation time in the second grade room.) On my way to my own class I impulsively pulled in to a nature preserve and took about a half-hour walk through the woods; that helped. Also, my professor that night talked about how teachers should be in the "ministry of presence" business; "You're adults," he told us, "so you can act like you want to be there even if you're having the kind of day when you don't feel like it! Just get across to your children, 'I am here for you.'" It was a timely message.
One more thing. There is an incredible range of proficiencies in the classroom I'm observing--both in terms of academics and behavior/social skills. If it hadn't been for this program, I wouldn't have had the chance to see how a dedicated teacher can work with each child, meeting each child where he or she is, and coaxing him or her to take many more steps forward. Just in the short time I have been in the classroom, I've come to a new appreciation of the patience, the perseverance, the commitment it takes for teachers to do what they do all day. It has been a tremendous privilege.
Our story so far: at the beginning of summer I enrolled in the College of Mount St. Joseph's Accelerated Master's Degree program for Inclusive Early Childhood, which will certify me to teach young'uns from 3 years old to 3rd grade, with an option to tack on an endorsement at the end to teach 4th and 5th grade as well. Two weeks ago, local public grade schools went into session. Part of our program is a period of observation in grade school classrooms, so my classmates and I fanned out across Cincinnati to kindergarten, first grade, second grade, third grade...
I haven't been in a grade school classroom since St. Thomas of Aquin closed its doors after my eighth grade graduation. Happily, I was paired with a mentor teacher with thirty years' experience (she taught one of the people teaching at her school now when she was in second grade!), and she has made me feel right at home. I'm in a second grade classroom with twenty-one children, with books and dry erase boards and math manipulatives and reward stickers and much, much more. At the start of the day one student is in charge of changing the calendar date to the correct one, and another gives us a weather report. We say the Pledge of Allegiance and try to follow proper protocol when we line up to go from one room to the next.
The first day was really, really tough--long and disorienting, and it didn't help that I knew I'd have my own graduate-level class to attend at the end of it. (I'm in the grade school from 7:30 in the morning until 2:45 in the afternoon, then I have class from 4 to 6:30. That's my Monday to Thursday schedule; on Fridays I have one 5 1/2 hour class and no observation time in the second grade room.) On my way to my own class I impulsively pulled in to a nature preserve and took about a half-hour walk through the woods; that helped. Also, my professor that night talked about how teachers should be in the "ministry of presence" business; "You're adults," he told us, "so you can act like you want to be there even if you're having the kind of day when you don't feel like it! Just get across to your children, 'I am here for you.'" It was a timely message.
One more thing. There is an incredible range of proficiencies in the classroom I'm observing--both in terms of academics and behavior/social skills. If it hadn't been for this program, I wouldn't have had the chance to see how a dedicated teacher can work with each child, meeting each child where he or she is, and coaxing him or her to take many more steps forward. Just in the short time I have been in the classroom, I've come to a new appreciation of the patience, the perseverance, the commitment it takes for teachers to do what they do all day. It has been a tremendous privilege.
Friday, June 26, 2009
St. Joe's at St. E's
When I step out of my house and look up the street, I see stone towers with filigree-work windows; I see a green copper dome; I see all of this topped with crosses. (Well, mostly topped with crosses. One cross is missing one-half of its crossbar, so one tower is topped with a sideways T. But this is what happens sometimes with old churches.)
St. Elizabeth's church is a heavy presence to have in the neighborhood, dominating the skyline, drawing people in. I think people here love her the way sailors may love a ship--I know I do. She's the reason I'm here, in a way. I would not have moved to Cincinnati had I not heard of the intentional Christian community that had restored St. E's to a worship space after the old Catholic parish had merged with two others. The Vineyard Central community had situated themselves in the parish buildings--the church, the rectory, the convent. I thought if I moved in, I could help explain the symbology that was their most immediate environment--the statues, the stained glass, the sign by the bell-ringing mechanism that said "Angelus."
In truth, there wasn't much about Catholicism my new neighbors and friends didn't already know--my faith has as heavy a presence on the cultural landscape as St. E's has on the geographical one. I ended up learning lots more about the Protestant world. Many Sundays I'd start at St. E's singing worship songs at my friends' service before ducking out to drive to Mass. I called it my "Jesus progressive dinner."
The Catholic church I attend is St. Joseph's. I sing in the choir of the 11 am Mass, where the liturgy is solidly in the Black Catholic tradition. We in the choir lead gospel songs, and sway, and every few weeks or so someone is so overcome with joy she shouts and testifies to the greatness of God. I found it all a bit startling at first, as I grew up in a church that was decidedly nondemonstrative. But that church of my childhood was later the home of Vietnamese liturgies which I also attended. I've gotten used to Mass being something outside my normal cultural sphere.
My joy would be complete if my Vineyard Central friends and neighbors and my St. Joseph church family were all connected. It's tough to belong to two congregations at the same time (even if, technically, I never joined VC--I spend way too much time with folks who are VC or loosely-VC-affiliated for this to be anything more than a technicality). Some ties already bind--a VC house church has gone to Ash Wednesday Mass at St. Joe's for the last few years, for example, and I've taken choir friends for a tour of St. E's. Still, I'm always hoping for something more, so you can imagine how excited I am about this Sunday night, when the St. Joe's choir will come sing in gorgeous St. Elizabeth's, up the street from my house.
Let me say that again: St. Joe's choir is singing at St. Elizabeth's this Sunday night. A full-on gospel choir, whose director happens to have once been the rehearsal pianist for La Scala, who reveals, when he smiles, that he is actually one of the cherubim, is coming to blow the copper dome off the church up the street.
I don't know what we'll be singing. Wylie, our choir director, never tells us in advance. The decision is left to the Spirit, who's never failed us yet.
I hope my VC and loosely-VC-affiliated friends, as well as friends from other parts and curious bystanders, will sing along. I think they will.
St. Elizabeth's church is a heavy presence to have in the neighborhood, dominating the skyline, drawing people in. I think people here love her the way sailors may love a ship--I know I do. She's the reason I'm here, in a way. I would not have moved to Cincinnati had I not heard of the intentional Christian community that had restored St. E's to a worship space after the old Catholic parish had merged with two others. The Vineyard Central community had situated themselves in the parish buildings--the church, the rectory, the convent. I thought if I moved in, I could help explain the symbology that was their most immediate environment--the statues, the stained glass, the sign by the bell-ringing mechanism that said "Angelus."
In truth, there wasn't much about Catholicism my new neighbors and friends didn't already know--my faith has as heavy a presence on the cultural landscape as St. E's has on the geographical one. I ended up learning lots more about the Protestant world. Many Sundays I'd start at St. E's singing worship songs at my friends' service before ducking out to drive to Mass. I called it my "Jesus progressive dinner."
The Catholic church I attend is St. Joseph's. I sing in the choir of the 11 am Mass, where the liturgy is solidly in the Black Catholic tradition. We in the choir lead gospel songs, and sway, and every few weeks or so someone is so overcome with joy she shouts and testifies to the greatness of God. I found it all a bit startling at first, as I grew up in a church that was decidedly nondemonstrative. But that church of my childhood was later the home of Vietnamese liturgies which I also attended. I've gotten used to Mass being something outside my normal cultural sphere.
My joy would be complete if my Vineyard Central friends and neighbors and my St. Joseph church family were all connected. It's tough to belong to two congregations at the same time (even if, technically, I never joined VC--I spend way too much time with folks who are VC or loosely-VC-affiliated for this to be anything more than a technicality). Some ties already bind--a VC house church has gone to Ash Wednesday Mass at St. Joe's for the last few years, for example, and I've taken choir friends for a tour of St. E's. Still, I'm always hoping for something more, so you can imagine how excited I am about this Sunday night, when the St. Joe's choir will come sing in gorgeous St. Elizabeth's, up the street from my house.
Let me say that again: St. Joe's choir is singing at St. Elizabeth's this Sunday night. A full-on gospel choir, whose director happens to have once been the rehearsal pianist for La Scala, who reveals, when he smiles, that he is actually one of the cherubim, is coming to blow the copper dome off the church up the street.
I don't know what we'll be singing. Wylie, our choir director, never tells us in advance. The decision is left to the Spirit, who's never failed us yet.
I hope my VC and loosely-VC-affiliated friends, as well as friends from other parts and curious bystanders, will sing along. I think they will.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Giant's Causeway
I am visiting my friends Cat (whom I know from high school) and Christy (her husband) at their home not far from Belfast. Generally I'm an easygoing traveller, happy to go along with other people's plans, but there was one sight I insisted on seeing on this trip: the Giant's Causeway on the Antrim Coast. I'd been to Northern Ireland once before--ten years ago this year!--on a backpacking trip, and had planned to visit this peculiar rock formation then, but I'd gotten ill and scotched the idea. There'd be none of that this time!
Cat, Christy and I set out on a whole-day expedition--not just to the Causeway but to Dunluce Castle (a majestic ruin on the cliffs which my friend Desiree had recommended I see) and the beach at Ballycastle (where Christy had gone many a summer whilst growing up). I was completely dumbstruck by Dunluce, it was just so gorgeous and wild. Mighty waves crashing against rocks below sheer cliffs, a roofless manor house and loggia and battlements, a sign describing an outer wall that had slid into the sea.
Fortified with salt and vinegar crisps, we headed next to the Giant's Causeway. Christy asked if I'd heard the legend of its formation. I had, but I'd forgotten key details.
"There's this Irish giant and this Scottish giant who decide to get together to fight," he began. Apparently they'd never met before--perhaps they'd just shouted insults back and forth, as Scotland and this bit of Northern Ireland are only, what, 37 km removed at this point. "So they start building a causeway so they can meet in the middle to battle it out." But then the Irish giant catches a glimpse of the Scottish giant--Christy used a colorful colloquialism to describe the terror the Irish giant felt at this point-and he hurriedly retreats. "Back home, the Irish giant dresses up in baby clothes and gets in a baby carriage sized to fit him. The Scottish giant meanwhile is angry he didn't get to scrap, and he comes looking for the Irish giant--" and finds instead what he takes to be the Irish giant's not-so-wee bairn. "He thinks, 'if that's his baby...!' and he runs back home, destroying the causeway as he goes."
All this Cat and Christy and I talked about on the long slanting road down to the Causeway. Christy also said that, though he himself thought the legend was a sufficient explanation for the stones, "naysayers" had formed a theory about a volcanic eruption some 60 million years back when basalt had rapidly cooled in the water. The expansion and contraction of rock made it take hexagonal shapes for reasons I've read about on the Wiki page but don't quite understand. "But the evidence in favor of the legend is that there are similar formations on the Scottish side," Christy pointed out.
Once we actually reached the Led Zeppelin album cover, I again felt overcome by how extraordinary it was. It's always fun to go stepping from stone to stone on a shoreline--multiply that by the surreality of the stones being hexagonal, and at all different heights, and some of them loose. "D'you have good health insurance?" Christy wanted to know. I laughed but started stepping more carefully, though I still found myself drawn to go as far out toward the sea as I could. Most people were scrambling up a ledge flanked by long columns of these rocks, but this was closer to the shore. There was a wide shelf of black rock (the inner rocks were brown) that was lonelier. I headed that way. My path would be blocked by small pools of water or boulders, but I found ways through. I didn't see where Cat and Christy went.
I found what seemed to be a good outpost--not too close to the crashing waves, not too close to the shoreline--and sat on a rock. I wasn't content there long, though. I soon noticed that, since the hexagons were all different heights, a natural high-backed chair was right beside me. I slid into it gratefully. It was even tilted back a little--a natural Barcalounger. Perfect. Mysterious stones and great green cliffs and wheeling seagulls and the roar of the sea. Happiness.
I watched the waves as they smashed into the rocks and broke into spouts of spray. I felt like I could have watched this for hours and hours. Just a few minutes in, though, I heard a deeper roar and saw a bigger wave approach. Wow, I thought. I wonder how far in it will get?
...as it flung itself in and drenched my corduroys and socks and shoes.
I stood up, squealed "AAA!" or something like that and looked around. I started squelching back to the brown rocks. (I was beginning to vaguely grasp what the difference in color might have meant.) I wanted to find Cat and Christy, but I was also hoping they hadn't seen this.
As I looked around I heard a whistle. "Don't worry," Christy said from the ledge where he and Cat were sitting. "Nobody saw that. Not many people, anyway."
For the rest of the day, when Cat broke into giggles, I knew the mental picture that prompted them. But I didn't mind. They were gracious enough to provide me a place to stay on this trip--the least I could do for Cat and Christy was to provide them some entertainment.
Cat, Christy and I set out on a whole-day expedition--not just to the Causeway but to Dunluce Castle (a majestic ruin on the cliffs which my friend Desiree had recommended I see) and the beach at Ballycastle (where Christy had gone many a summer whilst growing up). I was completely dumbstruck by Dunluce, it was just so gorgeous and wild. Mighty waves crashing against rocks below sheer cliffs, a roofless manor house and loggia and battlements, a sign describing an outer wall that had slid into the sea.
Fortified with salt and vinegar crisps, we headed next to the Giant's Causeway. Christy asked if I'd heard the legend of its formation. I had, but I'd forgotten key details.
"There's this Irish giant and this Scottish giant who decide to get together to fight," he began. Apparently they'd never met before--perhaps they'd just shouted insults back and forth, as Scotland and this bit of Northern Ireland are only, what, 37 km removed at this point. "So they start building a causeway so they can meet in the middle to battle it out." But then the Irish giant catches a glimpse of the Scottish giant--Christy used a colorful colloquialism to describe the terror the Irish giant felt at this point-and he hurriedly retreats. "Back home, the Irish giant dresses up in baby clothes and gets in a baby carriage sized to fit him. The Scottish giant meanwhile is angry he didn't get to scrap, and he comes looking for the Irish giant--" and finds instead what he takes to be the Irish giant's not-so-wee bairn. "He thinks, 'if that's his baby...!' and he runs back home, destroying the causeway as he goes."
All this Cat and Christy and I talked about on the long slanting road down to the Causeway. Christy also said that, though he himself thought the legend was a sufficient explanation for the stones, "naysayers" had formed a theory about a volcanic eruption some 60 million years back when basalt had rapidly cooled in the water. The expansion and contraction of rock made it take hexagonal shapes for reasons I've read about on the Wiki page but don't quite understand. "But the evidence in favor of the legend is that there are similar formations on the Scottish side," Christy pointed out.
Once we actually reached the Led Zeppelin album cover, I again felt overcome by how extraordinary it was. It's always fun to go stepping from stone to stone on a shoreline--multiply that by the surreality of the stones being hexagonal, and at all different heights, and some of them loose. "D'you have good health insurance?" Christy wanted to know. I laughed but started stepping more carefully, though I still found myself drawn to go as far out toward the sea as I could. Most people were scrambling up a ledge flanked by long columns of these rocks, but this was closer to the shore. There was a wide shelf of black rock (the inner rocks were brown) that was lonelier. I headed that way. My path would be blocked by small pools of water or boulders, but I found ways through. I didn't see where Cat and Christy went.
I found what seemed to be a good outpost--not too close to the crashing waves, not too close to the shoreline--and sat on a rock. I wasn't content there long, though. I soon noticed that, since the hexagons were all different heights, a natural high-backed chair was right beside me. I slid into it gratefully. It was even tilted back a little--a natural Barcalounger. Perfect. Mysterious stones and great green cliffs and wheeling seagulls and the roar of the sea. Happiness.
I watched the waves as they smashed into the rocks and broke into spouts of spray. I felt like I could have watched this for hours and hours. Just a few minutes in, though, I heard a deeper roar and saw a bigger wave approach. Wow, I thought. I wonder how far in it will get?
...as it flung itself in and drenched my corduroys and socks and shoes.
I stood up, squealed "AAA!" or something like that and looked around. I started squelching back to the brown rocks. (I was beginning to vaguely grasp what the difference in color might have meant.) I wanted to find Cat and Christy, but I was also hoping they hadn't seen this.
As I looked around I heard a whistle. "Don't worry," Christy said from the ledge where he and Cat were sitting. "Nobody saw that. Not many people, anyway."
For the rest of the day, when Cat broke into giggles, I knew the mental picture that prompted them. But I didn't mind. They were gracious enough to provide me a place to stay on this trip--the least I could do for Cat and Christy was to provide them some entertainment.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Really? My last post was in Advent? Huh. Well, it's Lent, so I guess it's time I post again...
Friday I was not well. I was the sort of "not well" that wakes one up at 3 am and lets one know that despite all previous plans, one is not going to go to work, one is not going to the awesome Hartzell United Methodist All You Can Eat Fish Fry and one is not going to the CD release party for the spectacular new release by the amazing Pomegranates, Everybody Come Outside!
Twelve hours after this realization, I decided to risk a walk around the neighborhood in the interest of a change of scenery. I was feeling a bit better, so I stepped out of the apartment with my long black leather jacket over a red ribbed sweater and my favorite gray pants and started out on the forty-minute circuit I like to walk.
I was almost finished--I'd turned my third corner--when a cop car pulled up and two cops came out of it and they said, "Put your hands behind your back! We have a warrant!"
Um?
I put my hands behind my back. They handcuffed me. All I could think was, "I hope wherever you plan to take me has a bathroom."
"What are you doing out here?" they asked.
"I'm on a walk," I said. "I have a forty-minute circuit I like to walk."
"Have you been arguing with anybody?"
"No."
"Do you have any identification on you?"
"No. But if you take me back to my house, we can get it."
"We had a call on a domestic dispute involving a woman with a red sweater and a black leather jacket."
As the cop was saying this, I could see "maybe this isn't the right chick" cross his face and the face of his partner. One kept looking up the street, muttering things like, "She should be coming round the corner any second."
They asked for my name, social security number and birthdate. I gave all of this information, and one got on his walkie-talkie and relayed it. They both sighed in exasperation as the woman on the other end got the numbers wrong, they repeated them, and then we waited. While we waited, one cop decided I didn't pose enough of a security risk to warrant the metal, so he released me from the handcuffs. I put my hands in my pockets and then remembered policemen want to see your hands at all times, so I took them back out again.
We waited, the one cop continuing to look up the street. I stared off into the middle distance.
The cop who kept looking up the street looked at the red lion emblazoned on my necklace and said, alluding to the birth date I'd given him, "I wondered if that necklace meant you were a Leo."
"No, it's actually from Chronicles of Narnia," I said.
Trying to find me in their system was taking too long for their tastes, so finally they said, "Let's just go. Sorry, ma'am." And they got back in their cop car and drove off.
The whole thing probably took no more than ten minutes. I've been having some interesting "Yeah, I've been handcuffed by the police" conversations with random folks because of it.
Friday I was not well. I was the sort of "not well" that wakes one up at 3 am and lets one know that despite all previous plans, one is not going to go to work, one is not going to the awesome Hartzell United Methodist All You Can Eat Fish Fry and one is not going to the CD release party for the spectacular new release by the amazing Pomegranates, Everybody Come Outside!
Twelve hours after this realization, I decided to risk a walk around the neighborhood in the interest of a change of scenery. I was feeling a bit better, so I stepped out of the apartment with my long black leather jacket over a red ribbed sweater and my favorite gray pants and started out on the forty-minute circuit I like to walk.
I was almost finished--I'd turned my third corner--when a cop car pulled up and two cops came out of it and they said, "Put your hands behind your back! We have a warrant!"
Um?
I put my hands behind my back. They handcuffed me. All I could think was, "I hope wherever you plan to take me has a bathroom."
"What are you doing out here?" they asked.
"I'm on a walk," I said. "I have a forty-minute circuit I like to walk."
"Have you been arguing with anybody?"
"No."
"Do you have any identification on you?"
"No. But if you take me back to my house, we can get it."
"We had a call on a domestic dispute involving a woman with a red sweater and a black leather jacket."
As the cop was saying this, I could see "maybe this isn't the right chick" cross his face and the face of his partner. One kept looking up the street, muttering things like, "She should be coming round the corner any second."
They asked for my name, social security number and birthdate. I gave all of this information, and one got on his walkie-talkie and relayed it. They both sighed in exasperation as the woman on the other end got the numbers wrong, they repeated them, and then we waited. While we waited, one cop decided I didn't pose enough of a security risk to warrant the metal, so he released me from the handcuffs. I put my hands in my pockets and then remembered policemen want to see your hands at all times, so I took them back out again.
We waited, the one cop continuing to look up the street. I stared off into the middle distance.
The cop who kept looking up the street looked at the red lion emblazoned on my necklace and said, alluding to the birth date I'd given him, "I wondered if that necklace meant you were a Leo."
"No, it's actually from Chronicles of Narnia," I said.
Trying to find me in their system was taking too long for their tastes, so finally they said, "Let's just go. Sorry, ma'am." And they got back in their cop car and drove off.
The whole thing probably took no more than ten minutes. I've been having some interesting "Yeah, I've been handcuffed by the police" conversations with random folks because of it.
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