On Mary Oliver

Thursday was, apparently World Poetry Day. I had no idea there was such a thing but, thank goodness for social media, I found out just in time. As a result, I shared the Facebook post from Mary Oliver’s Facebook page of one of my favorite poems…

I have not always loved poetry. When I was a kid, I didn’t “get” it. Reading it, the meaning the teachers felt the poem was trying to convey eluded me. Writing it, forget about it. To me, there was a “right” and a “wrong” with poetry, and there was no key that allowed me into the understanding of this format of writing.

To put it plainly, poetry made me feel stupid, like I wasn’t smart enough to study it.

This wasn’t always true. As a kid in lower elementary school, Where the Sidewalk Ends was one of my favorite books. I read it cover to cover, only to close the book and start again. I’d look at Shel Silverstein’s photo on the back cover and think he was one weird dude, but he sure could write poems. I remember reading the poem Smart and thinking that it was the most hilarious thing I’d ever read.

Sometime after third grade, however, I slipped away from poetry and gave up a bit on myself. That all changed when I attended our local community college, Parkland, for a year and a half between transferring from the University of Kentucky to the University of Illinois. There, at Parkland, I had a professor for two classes where we took a deep dive into poetry. We had to analyze it, mark it up with our thinking. The first time we did, I barely wrote anything on it, I was so afraid to be wrong. I wish I remember the name of that eccentric teacher, but he yelled, raising his arms in the air, waving them around, shouting about his passion for poetry, explaining that I needed to let go of my fear.

Somehow, I did.

I fell in love with poetry that semester, and the next. I found new favorite poems, and some that weren’t for me. I talked poetry with other people in our class. I listened to our professor expound on his love of the words we shared.

I didn’t find Mary Oliver that semester. I didn’t find her for years. But one day, I stumbled upon one of her books. I soaked the poems in. I bought another book of her poems. I listened to her read her own poems. I listened to her interviews, podcasts, as I walked. Her quiet voice was a balm to my soul.

I read her poem I Worried

And wondered how she could speak right to my heart.

I read her poem The Summer’s Day

And wondered if I could get the last line tattooed on my body somewhere.

Mary Oliver’s poems spoke to me. Again, and again, and again.

We lost Oliver this year at the age of eighty-three, which seems like an event that should have made the world fall silent for at least a minute or two. I love her quiet way of noticing what many of us do not. I love her appreciation for the small. I love the way she questions.

I will miss her voice. I will miss her poetry. We needed her wisdom, now more than ever.

If you’d like to check out the podcast I mentioned above, you can find it HERE. It’s just shy of an hour, but it’s an hour well spent.

Slice of Life - State Testing Begins

Slice of Life is sponsored on Tuesdays by Two Writing Teachers. For the month of March we are posting a slice each day on our blog. Join in!

Today our state testing begins. As I wrote about last year, I’ve stressed about these tests less and less every year I have taught. I know I am blessed; I am in a district that doesn’t stress about them. My administration doesn’t ask us to teach to the test. They assume we will teach, as we know we should teach, and the rest will take care of itself. As a result, I do very little “test prep.” Instead of peppering it through the year, we look at it as a genre and I teach it for one week. We put up passages under our document camera, read them together, and discuss the questions. I share a lot of think alouds – explaining how I would narrow the options down and come to my answer. We look at the extended response for reading and talk about strategies for answering it. And the kids always do well – exceptionally well – in discussion. Where the true test lies is how they do on their own.

Each year I circle the room as they take the exam and come to the same conclusion – the reading tests (at least in the past) are not that difficult. I ask them to do more on a regular basis. So why doesn’t ever one of them get an “exceeds?” I think there are a variety of reasons. Some struggle with test anxiety. Some are very relaxed, but when faced with a question they don’t know, they just guess instead of using test-taking strategies. Some, in the past, have done poorly because they simply don’t care about the results. When I see a 0 for their writing portion on any test, I know that is because they did not even attempt to answer it. I have a handful that received a zero last year. When I asked them why, they shrugged and said they didn’t think it was a big deal.

And truly, is it a big deal? I give three standardized tests over three days of a one hundred and eighty day school year. That is about 2% of our year together. So what does this test really measure? I’m not sure, but I know what it doesn’t measure.

Test results don’t show readers-

Growing each day.

Staying up late to finish the last page.

Texting friends,

Checking if they had reached “that page.”

Readers who profess to hate reading,

Laughing out loud over Calamity Jack,

Reading passages to anyone who will listen.

The results also fail to find writers –

Pouring out their souls,

Through pens, markers, keys clicking.

Hearts mending as the words and pictures slip out.

Writers growing closer in a class community.

Whispers of, “I didn’t know that about you,”

As they move around the room reading slices.

Writers trying new styles, being brave, being celebrated

In a class of their peers.

And I know that I won’t see the true growth of my students.

The character that has changed.

Kindness growing in hearts.

Comments held back,

Breathing before talking,

Learning to watch what they say.

It won’t show the tears when they’ve messed up,

Because now they know better.

The apologies that come immediately,

Because when you mess up, you own up.

The results won’t show the leaders that have stepped forward,

How they’ve learned to Be Brave.

How they’ve grown,

Soaring to the heavens.

And nowhere on those results will you see the growth of the teacher.

What I’ve learned from another year with students.

How my heart is full to bursting,

The pride I have for them flowing over,

Permeating my entire being.

No, the ISAT won’t measure that.

What is measured will be reported back.

I will look over the data.

Thinking of what I could have taught differently.

Lamenting the kids who struggled when I felt they would do well.

And realizing that this is just a snapshot,

Just a moment,

Of our year together.

So I won’t stress out about these tests.

I’ll celebrate with my students the extra reading,

And writing,

Time we will gain this week.
Squeeze a few conferences in.

And be ready to start anew when they’re done.

Winter in the Midwest - Celebrate this Week

Winter in the Midwest

is a lonely place.

Stark.

White.

Quiet.

February arrives with hope.

Whispered prayers that spring is coming,

in a matter of days or weeks.

We can finally break free of our cocoons.

Winter in the Midwest

is a study in contrasts.

Sub zero temps,

ice,

snow.

Quickly followed by a thaw,

thunderstorms,

tornados.

Followed by snow again.

Despite it all, we persevere.

Moving about life,

helping out our neighbors,

shoveling a drive,

pulling a car out of the snow.

Winter in the Midwest

Can be long,

Too long,

But it makes us celebrate the coming season.

Soon shoots will pop out from their winter homes,

Trees will bud,

And recess will finally be outside at lunchtime.

Winter in the Midwest

Makes us appreciate what comes next.

And this year,

we

are
ready.

 I’m joining up with Ruth Ayres for her weekly link-up, Celebrate This Week. Check out all of the posts linked up at her blog HERE. Thanks for starting this, Ruth!

Letting Go

Today was one of those days. I came home, grumpy, irritable, negative. I did what I told my students to do – wrote for 10 minutes, just to get it out. It’s rough, but what I needed to say. And I think I need to share it with someone – so here you go.

Letting Go

There are days where I want to scream.

Frustration builds up inside like a cork in a champagne bottle,

Just waiting to pop.

Days where I vacillate between what is “right” in education,

If anything is.

I despair.

How do you fight against something that is bigger than you?

How do you hold fast to what you know to be true?

Where do you find strength?

Allies?

Answers?

I look into the faces of my students and I know,

I know what is right.

I know where the truth lies.

I know what is important.

And yet, I struggle.

Where is the all-knowing body who tells us what to teach?

Since when should an eight-year-old know math this complex?

Who forgot to tell the authors of these standards that not every child is the same?

That not every child learns the same way.

That there is no magic bullet in teaching.

It is an art.

I am the artist.

They need to leave my classroom.

I’m beyond frustrated today.

And yet, I will continue to teach.

I will continue to provide the environment I believe to be best.

I will continue to teach the way I know will reach students.

I will pray that my own children and my students persevere.

I will hope that one-day politicians will leave teaching to teachers.

Because unless you have been one.

Unless you have taught in a classroom.

How can you possibly know how best to reach these students?

A Poem for the National Day on Writing

Today is the National Day on Writing and you can read more about it HERE. Thinking about “What I write” – which is this year’s theme – inspired a poem looking at what, and why, I write.

Last year I attended a conference,

Over and over the same question was repeated –

What are you writing?

They must have the wrong person.

I am not a writer.
What would I say?

But the seed was there.

Gnawing away at my inside.

Waiting to be acknowledged.

I came home, inspired.
By friends, teachers, authors.

Could I do it?

I stepped out.

Dipped a toe in.

Created a blog.

You all were there.

Left comments, tweets, messages.

Encouraged.

I kept writing.

Here and in journals.

Ideas filling up my head.

What I write changed

From emails, text, FB messages.

Grocery lists, plans, Goodreads posts.

To blogs, articles, the first pages of a book.

I write to be heard.

I write to inspire.

I write because the words burst forth,

Demanding to come out.

They will not be silent any more.