This week I asked Hive Mind to assist me in my teaching. It will not be the last time. Honestly, I don't know what teachers did before the Internet. Stuck for ideas, how did they face the challenge of designing a spelling activity for second graders in the days when one couldn't just do a Google search on "spelling activities for second graders"?
I feel like the woman in that old commercial who pats flour on herself to fool dinner guests into thinking she slaved over the making of baked goods. My painstaking spelling-activities quest, all three minutes of it, took me to a site that creates word searches. First step: come up with a title for your puzzle. This part of the process was the hardest for me, I think; I finally opted for "Spelling!" I then typed in all twenty of this week's spelling words and noted with amusement (and gratitude) that the puzzle generator promised to use a randomly-created-offensive-word filter as it merrily sprinkled letters around. And here was a nice touch: I could put in a hidden message that would be revealed as the spelling words were found. I chose the propaganda route and hid the phrase "I love to learn spelling with Miss Pancella."
I gave the students the word search today. When I passed out the papers, I explained about the hidden message, showing them how there were dashes at the bottom of the page--"_ ___ __ _____ ________ ____ ____ ________"--for the phrase they were looking for.
The next fifteen minutes were a bit of a free-for-all. Some second graders seem to have something of a word search instinct; others need more prodding. There was much collaborating at tables and some wandering around the room. I didn't mind how they worked on the puzzle so long as they were looking closely at what letters made up the words. The point wasn't to complete a puzzle; the point was to get more familiar with the topography of English.
I did take note of who first found all of the words. I went over to walk him through the finding of the hidden message, since "Use, in order, the letters that are not circled" is an abstract concept. He got pretty far before I was called away to help another student. When I got back, I discovered he was doing fine before he skipped a row; he had written "I love to learn spelling with Miss Pfhrzlbc."
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
In case the origin of the word "nylon" comes up when you're on Jeopardy
"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.
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.
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.
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