Things certainly have changed since then. Even though many people may worry about the writing capacity of high school graduates, the reality is that the writing curriculum has never been as extensive, demanding, and prescriptive as it is today. You would think these developments would have me dancing in the end zone, but I am not. Instead, I find myself holding my head in my hands and crying out: “What have we wrought?”

Over the course of my career, I have taught writing at every level-elementary, middle school, high school, and college-which means I watched and participated in the evolving writing curriculum as it made its way through K-12 and beyond. The result? I am left mostly feeling sorry for students who in the name of writing instruction are being asked to jump through an ever-expanding and increasingly byzantine set of hoops, but who less and less often are being asked to write. They may be able to create thesis statements and topic sentences, find details, write conclusions, and follow Modern Language Association style, but somewhere in there very little actual thought is taking place. In our desire to help students engage in the process of writing, we have defined a process that really isn’t writing.

A case in point: When I was teaching 3rd grade, we were mandated by the district’s language arts curriculum to instruct students in the following writing “genres”: instructional, descriptive, expository, and narrative. To assist students and teachers, the publishers of the curriculum had included numerous graphic organizers, brainstorming worksheets, and step-by-step instructions on the process of generating and organizing ideas. With naive faith in the authority of the workbook, I jumped in. It wasn’t long, however, before I observed that I wasn’t instructing students in writing so much as dragging them through the process outlined in the worksheets. “Just tell me what to put here!” students entreated. “Is this right? Is this what you want?”

Even when I abandoned the rigid, process-oriented assignments, I was still left with the very odd task of teaching a “genre” that didn’t exist in the real world, the instructional essay, in which one writes about how to do a particular task. When students balked again, I tried to write one and found myself stalled, just like my 3rd graders.

The time we wasted! The misery this induced! The emotional capital my students and I expended!

I wish I could say that this was just one misguided curriculum from one publisher, but it wasn’t. While the common-core standards, and before them the state standards, don’t mandate that a specific writing process be taught, they point districts and textbook publishers and teachers in this direction by detailing specific elements-structure, thesis statements, argumentative appeals-that need to be mastered. It’s not surprising that in efforts to streamline the real and complex world of instruction, these standards get twisted into oddly prescriptive steps and formats.

“In our desire to help students engage in the process of writing, we have defined a process that really isn’t writing.”

Thus, we have the entire English department at a local high school embracing a schoolwide essay format that calls for exactly three central paragraphs containing exactly eight sentences: topic sentence, detail sentence, commentary sentence, another detail sentence, another commentary sentence, a final detail sentence, a final commentary sentence, and a concluding sentence.

At a different high school across town, a history teacher hands out zeros to students who don’t have the thesis statement as the final sentence in the opening paragraph. Meanwhile, a woman I know who teaches at an elite research university bemoans the fact that her students, among the best in the country, have mastered the five-paragraph essay, but can’t develop a complex idea in writing. They are stuck, she says, in thinking that argument means offering three reasons, one for each paragraph in the body of an essay.

I could go on. The truth is, the more we try to tease apart what writing is and serve it up processed and predigested, the more we either confuse students or, as in the case of the elite university students, deny them engagement in the messy process that is thinking. At the very least, it is a benign waste of time and empty calories in the educational diet. At the worst, it crowds out the rich and complex array of intellectual nutrients we need.

So, I say, let’s abandon it. Let’s get rid of the narrow models, the graphic organizers, the formats, and the steps, and even, yes, maybe even, the five-paragraph essay. Let’s stop talking about thesis statements and topic sentences as if they were the rhetorical equivalent of the Magna Carta. Let’s abandon the ersatz genres made up by those who get paid to think up things for teachers to do.

What would we put in its place?

My proposal is modest, cheap, and deceptively simple: Ask students questions, read their answers, and ask more questions. Questions and answers. Nothing fancy. Much like home cooking, however, this kind of questioning takes time, it requires practice and honing, and the kitchen is a mess afterwards. But it is worth the trouble and the mess, for in this back and forth, this conference between teacher and student, real thinking and the work of real writing occur.

I am still on that mission to help students write. The only difference is that I find myself no longer looking back on my own education in dismay, but looking to it for insight and ideas. I realize that the writing I was asked to do, mostly in the service of explaining my thinking about the subjects I was studying, created an authentic engagement with ideas and content that was blissfully uncomplicated by format and process or half-baked notions about writing for a made-up audience.

It was about five years ago when I abandoned the 3rd grade writing curriculum and instead asked students a simple question about Sacajawea, whose biography I was reading aloud, that they became inspired and surprisingly fluent and articulate in their writing. “Does Sacajawea mean ‘boat pusher,’ as some scholars argue,” I asked, “or does it mean ‘bird woman,’ as others argue?” Hands went up. Discussion occurred. Then pencils eagerly met paper. Really. And no one, not a single student, whined about not knowing what to write.

Paula Stacey works as a developmental editor of books in K-12 education, teaches part time, and is working on creating a series of grammar videos. She has taught high school and middle school English, 3rd grade, and freshman composition at the college level.
(Premium article access courtesy of Edweek.org.)

Two weeks ago, straight from work on the heels of a very challenging class and without being able to see my work-by-night husband or my two school aged kids, I rushed onto the southbound ramp of the Northway at Queensbury. After two weeks of multiple open houses—my own, my children’s—meetings, new school year paperwork, and appointments, I was wiped both mentally and physically. I was running out of fuel after only two weeks of classes. To top it all off, Mother Nature was threatening to unleash a temper tantrum of thunder, lightening and down pour.

Any teacher can relate to the power of the new school year. It drains you to the core. Like a fire extinguisher, the onslaught of formalities puts out any flame of excitement for teaching. Yet, for any of you who have experienced a NWP Summer Institute, or any NWP professional development opportunity, you can attest to the power of unscripted, face-to-face interactions with like-minded colleagues. Barrelling down the northway that day, I was headed to meet with my summer institute cohort for the first time since July; I was about to rekindle my teaching fire.

As the chatter of reconnections faded, giving way to the click-click-click of laptop keyboards and the furious scratching of pen to paper, I took a deep breath and let the writing calm me. We wrote to escape for a bit, we wrote to lay aside the overwhelm, we wrote to detox from the back-to-school conformity. We wrote because writing really is the best, free therapy I know of.

Sharing turned to professional collaboration as we reignited the ardor for teaching that had been lit during the summer institute—a fire that, for many, had become threatened by the strong wind of public education’s formalities, busy schedules and negative interactions with those who just don’t get it. During our two hours of time, we collaborated and solved problems. We planned and we generated ideas for good teaching. We laughed, and we offered support.

Sometimes, it just takes a little writing to revive that excited teacher glow.

There was a writer deep within, marking the grim passing days on lonely dungeon walls. He tolerated long hours of teaching, afternoons of meetings and a second job, evenings with a wife and kids, weekends of house projects and school work. He’d not known freedom for ages, and yet bore it all without complaint, spending his dormant hours in quiet observation.

Part of my reason for seeking out the CDWP was to let this writer see the light of day again. He had been plenty patient, figuring that either by good behavior, or the hole he’d been secretly drilling in the wall, one day he’d be free. As a blank page was set before him and a pen was put in his hand, he blinked, wide-eyed, in disbelief that his liberation had finally come. He chomped at the bit as the prompt hit, and then off he went – word after word after word, page after page after page. And ever since I can’t seem to get a handle on him, never mind get him back in his cage.

He found deep, hidden corners in me, treasures tucked away and long since forgotten. He unearthed untruths taken for granted, turning them over like big heavy rocks at the bottom of the ocean. He ran at, rather than from, the sleepy demons who blocked the gleaming doorways leading to wide open fields. He tore off the thick layers that had grown over unhealed wounds, and though these wounds bled again, they could now also breathe and heal for real. He did all of this, despite my having kept him under lock and key. I released him, and he re-made me.

This CDWP 2011 Summer Institute was some of the richest, most useful professional development I’ve experienced. It was an engaging mix of dedicated colleagues reading about and questioning the nature of our profession, often pressing up against the status quo. The only rules were to nurture your neighbor’s courage so as to nurture your own, and that you get what you bring. As an added bonus, I’m now also networked into several other cohorts.

It was equally fulfilling on a personal level, and it surfaced through writing, writing, writing. It’s been a major paradigm shift, and there is a new lens through which I can see the world. Or maybe it’s just an old lens seen through anew. Either way, as we meet for a bit each day, this writer deep within will keep me mindful of the treasures before me. He will help me question the validity of these big heavy rocks before they are dropped to the bottom of the sea. He will be standing at-the-ready as I face my demons. He will help me heal these wounds and those yet to come. The writer deep within has seen the light, and it cannot be unseen.

Sitting on my soft blue couch, my aching leg propped up on a pillow, laptop in front of me and a fan blowing hot humid air across my skin, it seems impossible to believe that the Summer Institute is already over. It seems just yesterday I was being wheeled into the interview, and caught my first glimpse of what a large chunk of my summer would look like. Then we were all at the pre-institute retreat, forming friendships that developed stronger and deeper than some I’ve had for years and years now, enjoying some delicious food (and wine), discussing the nuts and bolts of the institute, and celebrating managing to avoid the Rapture.

Not a bad way to start the summer.

Even after that weekend, though, I had no idea what this institute would do to me, for me, how I would leave it completely changed…as an educator, as a member of society, simply as a person. And as Alicia stated it during my demo-lesson, once you see it, you can never un-see it.

I see now.

I see that there are things about the modern educational system that are simply unacceptable. I see the struggles we, as teachers, are faced with day-to-day. I see the dangers of turning a blind eye, of keeping your head tucked down and aiming for the status quo. I see our students who need us, now possibly more than ever. But more importantly, I see that I can make a difference. I can be the “change I wish to see in the world.” I am strong, capable, and a vehicle for change.

And I see that I am not alone.

There are others who have the same values and goals that I do, who will be there on the same journey (mission?) that I am. Who can hold me up when I reach for the seemingly unattainable goal of improving a system that is failing our students, much like they held me up at the pre-institute retreat, when I was unable to walk over a doorway unassisted due to my knee injury. Similarly, I can be there for each and every one of them, to offer whatever support they need at that time—a voice of reason, a listening ear, a supporting hand, a shoulder to cry on. We have bonded together and now exist both individually and as the unit that is our cohort, and together we can do some pretty incredible things. Abraham Lincoln once said “You may fool all the people some of the time, you can even fool some of the people all of the time, but you cannot fool all of the people all the time”.

Well, look out, because we aren’t being fooled anymore!

At the beginning of this institute we were asked to write about “Something You Are”. Here’s what I wrote:

I am a dreamer. I look at the world, see what it is, how I think it should be, and believe we can get there. I am not a person who says “I wish things were like this, but it’s impossible”. No. I don’t just give up on things. I see a way for a better future, and I think you have to fight for it. Even if you only make small steps of progress, you have to fight for it. Even if it doesn’t seem like you are doing anything at all, you have to fight for it. Because if you don’t, you’re damning us all; you’re giving up; you’re giving in.

How has life turned so dark for them so early, how has it burned out their light?

A few short weeks ago posting a piece of writing I had completed, especially a free-write, completed in about 8 minutes, that hasn’t been edited, workshopped, or revised in any way, would be terrifying.

Now it feels like freedom.

Thank you for that, all of you. Thank you for bringing me to this place I am now, a place where I have regained my own faith, my own light. Thank you for rekindling the passionate fire in my soul, the fire I pray will propel me forward towards change. Thank you for your support and your guidance, your laughter and your tears. Thank you for becoming a part of my life.

Thank you.

I am so thankful that I took on this endeavor. It has been a lot of work (thinking, in particular), but it was so rewarding. I must say, I have enjoyed meeting and working with some of the best educators in the capital district. We’ve had poets, storytellers, a harmonica player…and a lot of COLORFUL words being thrown around!

When I found out that I had to teach a lesson to my peers, I freaked out! I decided right away on poetry. In the end, I was relaxed and had fun with the lesson. In turn, we all ended up with thirteen wonderful lessons each. I put out a call to my colleagues in the group to share some of their poems from my lesson, which follow:

The stark calm glassy water
Awaits the arrival of father and daughter

Our destination is reached at twilight
Skis whisper rhythms on snow-no longer white

The landscape is cast in a hue of blue
Another windswept treasure I’ve shared with you

Mid-Winter Lighthouse

Sturdy and well-kept
Wind-blown and wind-swept
Out where there’s no place to hide

A beacon in motion
Edging the ocean
To serve as the seafarer’s guide

Solid and steady
Always at the ready
Faithfully standing alone

Placid and haunting
Forever wanting
The seafarer safely back home

Waves crashing calmly
Persistently hitting me
Placid place of peace

Sunny and peaceful
Sea Birds gliding gracefully
storm clouds threatening

Beach of rocks and sand
Small seal sitting silently
Shark waits patiently

Shore
Soft, inviting
lapping, buzzing, droning
Mosquitos, peepers, dragonflies, loons
Calling, croaking, fluttering
Longing, listening
Lake

My inquiry group researched technology in writing.  We worked hard and learned a lot, and we had a great time making a wiki to share some of what we learned with the rest of the group.  Please feel free to check out our wiki at http://cdwp2011writingtechology.wikispaces.com/ .  We also invite you to join the wiki group (see link at the top right of the wiki) so you can share your own resources and ideas.

Being a part of this special group has truly been an experience of a lifetime.

As the final days of our Summer Institute draw down, I’d like to reflect on the experience we’ve shared. As intensely personal as it has often been, I also think that a poignant sense of community has developed among our group and our facilitators. It’s this intersection between the personal and the communal that is – in part, at least – what has made the Summer Institute so powerful for so many. I am reminded of the story John shared with us earlier in the week. He talked about his first experience as a teacher in a school operated by Deborah Meier. He told us about how there were no administrators, about how dialogue was the engine that drove the school. John said that it was messy and it was slow, but everyone had a voice, a say in how things got done. He told us that everyone felt they had a stake in the school, the kind of stake that comes from direct involvement in its direction and goals. He called that Democracy.

Democracy is the essence of the CDWP, and the entire experience is rich in its principles. For four weeks we talk it, walk it, reflect on it, breathe it in. And above all, we write about it. In all our prompts, in all our musings, in all our demonstration lessons and inquiry group presentations, we give it voice and bring it home. In these days of democracy under siege, nothing could be more important than what we’ve accomplished together over this past month. We have, in the words of Paulo Freire, come to “knowledge of reality through common reflection and action.” We’ve explored Anyon’s treatise on social class in education, discussed the insightful, often distressing work of June Jordan, Lisa Delpit, Henry Giroux, and – not least of all – the first semester college freshman, John. Our conversations have unveiled things to us that most people never have the opportunity to reflect on, and that others would wish to conceal from us forever. The ugly realities of classism and racism are all implicated in our education system, and we have taken that reality head on. These are hard things, and we should be proud of what we did. We should also recognize that this is only the beginning. As we grow in knowledge, so do we acquire power – power to transform, to reinvent, to resist.

As much as we laughed over the course of the Institute (and we laughed a lot!) there were also many times when we were angry. The depth of our writing and of our dialogue often led us to uncomfortable moments of discovery and confrontation. As we wrestled with a reality we were co-constructing, we talked frequently about the value of resistance and subversion. To me it seemed as though we found a kind of liberation in these words, a sense that taking a stand was the right and natural thing to do. I have little doubt that we have all struggled to resist the social injustice of our system for a long time, but I also feel that doing so as part of a community was empowering and uplifting. Over and over we talked about how we felt at home with our cohort, that despite all our differences we were all together in this, many voices speaking as one.

As our time together in the Summer Institute comes to a close, I reflect on how much I’ve valued your wisdom, your experiences, your perspectives. Everything you’ve shared, from childhood anecdotes to lessons you’ve taught, has made a difference. And so much of it has been profound, from John’s story about democracy to Kerry’s seamless merging of art with writing to Brandon’s gift of time to sit outside and contemplate things growing and green. All of us have contributed to one another’s understanding of the power of writing; all of us have become writers again together.

Freire wrote that “education as the practice of freedom… denies that man is abstract, isolated, independent, and unattached to the world; it also denies that the world exists as a reality apart from other people.” Those words have a new meaning for me as I think back upon this Summer Institute. I feel that more than just reflecting on them, I’ve now also had a chance to live them.

Three years ago this past June I was crossing St. Peters Hospital parking lot in a wheel chair pushed by an aide who was simultaneously dodging potholes and commercial vans. I was coming from being prepped for surgery at the Breast Center at 319 S. Manning Blvd. and going to the hospital across the parking lot for the lumpectomy. My surgical gown was flapping in the wind, when my life flashed before my eyes as I saw the red van heading our way. My husband and I glanced at each other in total shock that this was actually happening. Incredulously I asked the aide, “You don’t take older women across this lot, especially during the winter, do you?” “Oh Yeah,” the aide, in her thirties, nodded emphatically, clearly understanding my disbelief. She boldly expressed her concern, “I have dumped little old ladies over because they do not plow this parking lot very well. The only way this is going to stop is if someone writes a letter to the CEO!”

The aide knew the power of writing.

Over the next few weeks I recovered from surgery and was thrilled to find out that I had stage zero. I could not ask for more. However, I kept thinking about the crazy carnival ride I needed to take to get from the Breast Center to the hospital. When I called a local cancer support group to ask a question about my follow-up care, I found out that several women had called them crying about their experiences as they crossed the lot at St. Peters. They felt they were at their most vulnerable at that moment and were overwhelmed and powerless. Then the aide’s words harkened back to me.

So I wrote the letter.

I sandwiched my outrage, which I toned down to sound more like a serious concern, between how grateful I was for my doctors and the care I received from the hospital staff. In the letter, I passed along my husband’s suggestion that they get a golf cart–a motorized vehicle that would provide shelter for the women during this sensitive time.

I was hoping for a response but was still shaken when two weeks later I answered the phone and it was the CEO. “Mrs. Martin, we have met as a committee and we cannot think of a better solution to this problem than the golf cart. We will be purchasing one in a few weeks,” he informed me in a kind yet authoritative voice. “I would like a call back to confirm that the new policy is in place,” I said, trying to sound strong but honestly feeling a bit overwhelmed by talking with him. His secretary called a few weeks later confirming the purchase of the cart.

The impact of that letter still amazes me.

Given how nervous I was talking to the CEO, I know I would have faltered had I called and spoken to him instead of writing. Writing the letter helped me clarify my thoughts. Writing gave my concern power, because now it was on record. Writing let the CEO and hospital know I was committed to this change. Finally, writing a CEO just has a way of eliciting a quick response.

A Coda:

Each time I went for follow-up appointments I saw the golf cart, sitting ready to take a patient from the Breast Center to the hospital with some dignity. That is, until my surgeon reported that due to the construction, the parking lot was once again reconfigured and now women had to go around the parking lot TWICE before getting in the correct lane in order to be dropped off at the hospital. You just cannot make this stuff up. Though shortly after this, the Breast Center was completed and is now housed in the hospital. The golf-cart has been happily retired.

I think back to the passing comment that the aide made; how it planted a seed in me to write the letter and the influence that letter had. Simply amazing.

We write to advocate for a cause; we write to share our feelings, leaving notes in lunch boxes and suitcases ready for travel; we write to record history, a family cookbook or letters; and we write to heal, perhaps through journaling. Being a participant in the CDWP has taught me to honor the writing I do. For that I am eternally grateful. Thank you to all of you who are in the program this summer for this gift.

Here it is Monday. I thought I would spend some of the weekend drafting my thoughts for my blog entry. I did not. I sat out in a field and listened to amazing live music all day Saturday and Sunday. While listening, I spent hours cracking the Super Master Mind “codes” Ellen willingly set up for me. It is a logic game that I am surprisingly good at… who knew?

What can I say about my work here at the Capital District Writing Project Summer Institute? I have the apparent distinction of being the first school administrator to participate in the institute at this site. My summer workload has meant that I have not been able to participate in every afternoon, but have been able to attend every morning session. The feeling that I am incredibly fortunate, if not down right privileged, to be here has been my pervading emotion and conscious thought throughout the past three weeks.

On a personal level, it has been nothing short of a revelation to connect to my own writing in a new way. The writing group has given me a sense of purpose in putting my own story into words. I have enjoyed the opportunity to share my writing and hear feedback that has helped me grow and encouraged me to keep writing!

Professionally, I have gained insights from the model lessons, the readings and mostly the discussions with teachers. Being in the room and hearing the ideas, fears, stressors, passions and conflicts these teachers experience in their work gives me so much hope for the future of this profession. There is true commitment here. A dedication and sincerity that I know drives most teachers; but here I have had windows into how “administrative” actions, roles or communications can inadvertently harm that positive drive.

We are all facing real change and real challenges in public education, whether a “teacher with out boundaries” (as Jami has reframed looking for a job), new to the profession, veteran teacher, or administrator. I am so appreciative of the opportunity to be in conversation with this group of teachers about these changes and challenges in such an honest way. It seems a luxury to be reflecting on things like what our assessment practices communicate explicitly or implicitly to students, but on the other hand these are the meaningful explorations and inquiries that improve instructional decisions. Here we are aware of the Common Core, Race to the Top and APPR, but it seems we are not distracted by these things, or fooled into thinking these mandates hold real answers. Here I am remembering how important it is to ask questions.

What are the things I can do to give voice to everyone who does not feel at home or valued in the school environment? What steps can I make to assure the teachers I work with are fully aware of my respect and regard for what they do? What can I do to assure we have space in our school for diversity, controversy and messy conversations where we do not end the conversation with some version of “because that is the policy”?

In this last week I am feeling a mix a hope and trepidation. I tend to gravitate to the hopeful side of things. This institute has reminded me of the spark that brought me into the field of teaching. I have been thinking a lot about my past teaching experiences and my past learning experiences. These two things are linked in complicated and surprising ways. As a struggling student, school was not a place I wanted to be. As a teacher, I hid so much of myself from my colleagues and students; I was similarly ill at ease in the school environment. This has been an opportunity for me to reclaim my voice and to listen to the voices of a group of inspiring and inspired educators.

What a powerful thing it is to have a voice through writing.

As my new friends in the summer institute know, our family recently adopted a black Labrador-mix puppy from the local SPCA. She has a sweet face, a dash of white fur across her chest, and the softest fur you’ve ever felt. And she can be a holy terror. Now I’ve had dogs almost my whole life, and many of them have been Labradors or mixes, so I went into this thinking I had experience and could handle her training just fine. Wrong. Imagine my surprise when her exuberant puppy nips and her jumps on the furniture began to increase in intensity, rather than ease up as they had with my other dogs.

Yesterday, a friend looked at the scratches that crisscrossed over my arms and asked skeptically, “How attached are you to this dog?” I admit the question gave me pause. Why wouldn’t our puppy settle down? What if her behavior got worse instead of better?

But then I thought about my recent visit (in desperation), puppy in tow, to a dog trainer. When she worked with me and my puppy the first time, she proclaimed, “She is a good dog.” I must have looked unconvinced, because she repeated, “She really is a good dog,” and then added, “and she’s going to be a great dog for you.”

Her words make me hopeful, as does her commitment to work with me to make her words reality. Her experiences with other dogs allow her to see things I could not see on my own. So I am acting on my faith in her, letting her vision of my dog’s potential at least temporarily replace my own worries and doubts. There is power in her vision.

My decision to trust this dog trainer reminds me of a writing experience I had recently. This spring, I was immersed in the final stages of writing my dissertation, after almost six years of doctoral study. I had set a date with my advisors, on which I would send them my dissertation for their review and in preparation for my oral defense. It had been a long journey. About a week and a half before my dissertation was due, I floundered. I was stressed, and I was exhausted. I simply could not see a way I could get it “done” on time. Fortunately, I was working with a writing group, three women with whom I had been sharing my academic writing for the past three years. When I confessed my fears to them, they told me what they could see. Unlike me, they were not blinded by anxiety and doubt. They helped me see outside the immediacy of my situation. “You are almost there,” they told me. “This is good work. You will make it. Keep going.”

Like with my experience with the dog trainer, I could not see what my writing group members saw in that moment of crisis. I saw only the problems, the ticking clock, the work ahead of me. But they saw the potential, the possibility, and the momentum. They could see me making it to my deadline, even when I could not. So I trusted them, and I kept working as if I, too, could see what they saw. And I finished, on time, a dissertation I was proud of.

I find myself thinking of these experiences as I reflect on the past several weeks in the summer institute. Our conversations around the table this summer have given me glimpses into classrooms from first grade through college, in which powerful and meaningful things are happening with writing. We have shared deep conversations about learning, writing, justice, and teaching. We have opened up our teaching practices, and we have explored our own writing and professional inquiries. My summer institute writing group has helped me see possibilities in my writing, and my inquiry group has helped me discover opportunities for integrating writing and technology. I believe we have given each other visions of what can happen in writing instruction, and faith in the promise of working together in that direction.

Perhaps most importantly, this summer has given us new colleagues, supporters in our endeavors as writers and as teachers. I have faith that in moments when I doubt or become overwhelmed, I will be able to turn to these new colleagues, to seek out and rely on their vision to inspire again my sense of possibility.

Many segments, thoughts, and experiences from our time at the Summer Institute have been touched upon here, but until this point, there has not been any explicit talk about the Writing Group. We all spend so much of our time creating diverse and rewarding lessons that we find we have little time for ourselves. How different could my life be if I could take 30 minutes a day, trimming this activity here, and that there, to just write? For me, meeting each day with Christine and Michelle has been one of the most rewarding experiences in some time. Though this may sound selfish, it’s nice to have some creative time for myself, for it is slightly indulgent to spend some time in the muck and mire of our minds, yes? This structured, daily time to write has truly allowed me to relive past experiences that I’d thought long-since-forgotten.

“But no!” I simultaneously respond to myself. “All of this time reflecting upon choices made in my writing and unlocking memories past is not self-indulgent.” Participating in my daily writing group has honed the verbiage I have to address why what we do as educators, as writers, and as writing educators is important. I have so much to learn from my group mates: my group mates, who see avenues where I see brick walls; my group mates, who also share their fears about their writing, soothing mine; my group mates, who laugh in all the right places; my group mates, who revel in discussions of why genre matters and enjambment; my group mates, who dutifully apply their pruning shears to these rude vignettes; my group mates: writers writing.

I’ve included a piece that we’ve been workshopping, and I would like to, once again, thank them both. Thank you.

“The Doorframe”

Early morning sleep recently rinsed from his eyes, sections of his face materializing in the steamed-over mirror in front of him, James stood brushing his teeth in the bathroom of his recently-moved-into home. While the rest of his new roommates still slept, he stood in only his boxers at the sink, bathroom door open, a past luxury he’d thought he’d have to forfeit to move in with his friends. In fact, each of them had his or her reasons for temporarily forfeiting their own preferences, quirks, and rituals. Finances, sought-for comforts of house versus apartment-life, companionship, all reasons (among others) slightly luring the four of them from their respective comfort zones.

Four different toothbrushes clustered in a blue ceramic holder. Four different toothpastes scattered about the sink, one advertising “Tartar Control,” another, “Extreme Whitening,” yet another, “All-purpose Cleaning,” each suggesting, perhaps, a particular fear of its purchaser. One tube was rolled from the bottom, and another appeared to have had somehow been squeezed in such a way that created pockets of paste within the tube. This was certainly not James’, who, in a house of three men and one woman was the only person to put the top toilet seat down, a holdover from his days growing up in a home of only a mother and younger sister (he would still chuckle fondly at the memory of his sister, 12 at the time, screaming “CRAP!!!” at 2 am, having gone to the bathroom, leaving the light off to save her half-awake eyes from the shock of the too-bright light, only to find one of her brother’s 15-year-old friends had left the seat up, the shock of cold porcelain and even colder water waking her up more than the avoided light ever could).

Despite his fastidiousness in some aspects, James, though, was restless, existing in constant motion. Mornings, he would often walk to his room to check sports scores on the internet, toothbrush still-in-mouth, or grind coffee after applying shaving cream, but before actually shaving, both acts of multitasking that he realized were ridiculous in their practicality, but somehow natural. He was a man in constant motion.

Today, however, his eyes were arrested by a sight, chest-high, on the doorframe to his left. In a space occupying all of two inches, he saw five measurements taken in a seven-month span, the last literally taken within 20 days. A young girl, he immediately knew, remembering it was decided with the landlord that what would soon be Bill’s room would be painted a more neutral color than pink, however appealing the thought of leaving this surprise for Bill, who had not looked at the house but had trusted his friends to make the right choice, was.

The moment caused James pause, if for even the briefest of moments, as he realized that this bathroom, until last month, had been in some little girl’s house. Not just her house, but her home. It was, perhaps, all she had ever known of a home, and when she thought of home, this was what she thought of. This very house, which to James and his roommates, was, they knew, just one more number on the list of dwellings that grew one longer ever year or two, and would continue to for the foreseeable future.

This little girl, who was now about 4 ½’ tall, was probably entering 4th grade in the fall; who was now envisioning spending weekends with her parents, but who in a few years would likely be wanting to do anything on the weekend not with her parents; who maybe still thought boys were a little gross, but who, in 11th grade, would have a terrible falling out with her father over which boys she could date; who would one day cut off all contact with her father over what she claimed was his “incessant overbearance,” and he had called “knowing what’s best;” had stood here as her just-graying Daddy, her slightly-paunched Hero, had stooped to mark the line and date. Her eyes beaming, she quickly spun, nearly knocking the pencil from his hand, to see that in the past six weeks she had grown an eighth of an inch, a squeal of delight bursting from her mouth, before spinning back around just as quickly to wrap her arms around her daddy’s waist, embracing him in this precious moment.

Unknowingly, James echoed aloud what her father had probably said in silence, “Stay young, kiddo,” and into the sink spat out what he, for a moment, had completely forgotten about. The toothpaste, like memories, lingered for a moment before being caught up in the flow of rushing water, and was pulled out of sight.