“Teaching more nonfiction will be a key issue. Many English teachers don’t think it will do any good. Even if it were a good idea, they say, those who have to make the change have not had enough training to succeed – an old story in school reform.” – Jay Matthews

My children are full of imagination, and so are my students. I am not only the father of two school aged children, but for the past eleven years I have also been an elementary school teacher. I appreciate how Jay Mathews’ article, “Fiction vs. Nonfiction Smackdown,” expresses very clearly one of the central debates ignited by the onset of the Common Core State Standards. It made me think about several questions. Should students spend more time reading non-fiction texts? Does imagination have a place in modern learning? And, of course, who should be teaching students these non-fiction texts? I contend that there is another way to look at the issue that not only helps students become more proficient with technical texts, but also retains the nurturing of imagination, in important skill in any occupation.

Amongst my peers in teaching it seems to have been already decided that it will be the responsibility of reading teachers to saddle this new shift in text types. I believe that to be the first wrong step of the new reform. Imagination is a vital skill in any realm. I believe that we shortcut ourselves immensely by assuming imagination cannot serve society outside of story writing and poetry. I remember watching a Frontline series in the spring of 2012 called Money, Power and Wall Street that reported on the financial crisis of a few years ago. In the second episode, which dealt with how our financial leaders responded to the crisis, I was struck particularly by how many times those involved related that what was happening in America several years ago had never happened before. To paraphrase one interviewee, there was no play book on how to handle a financial meltdown of this scale. So, they had to make up the direction they would take for action. For better or for worse they had to use their imaginations collectively to think of solutions that had not yet been created. I think our country would have certainly been in dire straits had our financial officials been so reticent on relying only on pre-existing knowledge to guide them. Other viewers of this episode may disagree with me, but I saw a very real use of imagination.

I also believe that there is a way to protect the creative and imagination rich space of English classes. We need to break away from the assumption that only English teachers who will give students the skills they need for successful content literacy. Other content areas need to grow their use of literacy in order to fulfill the eventual 50-70 percent rather than assuming reading classes will cut back on their use of fiction texts in order to fulfill the new prescribed rations. This sort of shift in reading focus needs collaboration across all content areas.

Another misstep of the current reform is not taking this opportunity to shift the paradigm of who explicitly teaches literacy. Again, it seems that explicit reading and writing instruction only occurs in English classes, but why? All teachers, regardless of content, should see themselves as instructors of reading and writing, too. They are teachers of content who have particular literacy skills that they need to teach in order support interoperating/understanding that content. I believe that shedding some of the responsibility of literacy instruction from English teachers is not a means to diminishing student use of texts; rather it is an amazing opportunity to make our understanding of literacy deeper and richer.

Let me illustrate my argument from above further with an example from the content area of math. As a former first grade teacher I can say that part of teaching students to read involves teaching them where to begin looking at a text written in English in order to get meaning from it. We teach students to start at the top and go from left to write. Yes, early literacy instruction includes those types of skills taught explicitly, it is not assumed student will pick up that learning naturally, even though there are some who do. However, there is an assumption that all students learn how to read a math problem without always explicitly teaching students from an early age that math literacy follows other rules. We tend to let the rules of language carry over into the rules of math literacy. Students still read math problems from top to bottom and left to right. That is fine when solving 8 + 3 = 11, but not when students are asked to solve 8 + 3 x 4 = 20. Solving this type of problem requires students to read from right to left, not left to right. As a fifth grade teacher I can attest that we do try to impart rules of math literacy, but by the upper elementary grades the language rules of literacy are so engrained that they work against students’ math literacy.

So, yes, we need to look at the way we teach literacy in content areas. I also believe that it should remain the job of content teachers to instruct students explicitly in the types of literacy skills that are needed in math, science and social studies. Reading and writing are not just for English class anymore. This will require a new look at the way early literacy in content areas should be taught, and that will require some training. However, it also means that we need to stop assuming that literacy instruction only occurs in one part of a student’s day. This type of endeavor is not scripted in some playbook, we are going to have to work together as an entire team of content specialists, and it certainly take some imagination.

Brian Rhode teaches 5th grade ELA and social studies and Poestenkill Elementary School in Averill Park CSD and went the Capital District Writing Project’s Invitational Summer Institute during the summer of 2009.

I love my job. Honestly.

On a Wednesday in May my principal sent me an email asking me to stop by and see him during my planning period. Ok…what did I do now?

When I hovered in his doorway – hoping my body language would deliver the message that I was in a hurry, he asked me to step in, shut the door and take a seat. He asked me if I was ok. He was concerned for my happiness. He acknowledged that in the last two years I had lost both of my parents and he was worried about my happiness at work. I assured him I honestly loved my job. We talked for the entire period, I have to admit I shed a few tears but when I left his office and went to my next class I made sure I smiled at every person I passed in the hall.

I finished the day with really sore facial muscles. I never smiled so much. I projected how much I honestly loved my job. I ended the day feeling better…

Then I went home.

And I began to wonder – do I honestly love my job?

I know I love my interactions with my students, yet what about the job? It definitely has gotten harder. I’ve been at this since 1982 and not one workday morning have I woken up and said – “No problem, I got this.” Although, I do love this about teaching – no day is ever the same. No matter how prepared I feel, how many droplets of sweat have soaked my lesson planning, things tend to change in an instant once fourteen year olds are physically in front of me. Ok, so what had my principal noticed? It couldn’t be a disdain for spontaneity. What unhappiness aura am I projecting?

Unhappy with my coworkers? No, the beauty about my being older than most of my coworkers is being able to speak my mind and for them to look at each other with a look that says, “Is she plain crazy or crazy like a fox?” And – please, a coworker never has to ask me for an opinion, I give it willingly- they don’t ever assume I don’t have one. If I don’t give one they know it is because I didn’t listen to them or I didn’t hear them. I love my coworkers – we are all in this together, and no matter how correct only I believe I am about everything, they nod their heads in agreement and I’m sure- roll their eyes behind my back. I am fine with that.
Unhappy with my classroom? No, I have a brand spanking new large room that is all my own – with windows! I love my room. Lots of great stuff happens in my room. There are papers everywhere, desks out of order, colorful posters and student work on my walls, books, thriving plants, lots of meaningful conversations. I definitely am not unhappy about my room.

Unhappy with my administration? No, I don’t believe so. I have to admit I ruminated and ruminated about the motivation behind my being asked to the office to have this initial conversation. I came to the conclusion that having an administrator sit down and ask me if I was ok is pretty lucky for me.
Now… there may be something about my job that is turning my smile upside down…just a little thing…is my teaching making a difference in the daily lives of my students? Just a little thing…yeah right. It’s the WHOLE thing. I know there is a knowledge exchange in our classroom – student to teacher; student to student; teacher to student. Discussions in class have stirred anger, contentment, inquiry, sadness. When the bell rings after forty-two minutes I am happy with the exchanges of knowledge and feelings in our classroom.

Then my students go home.

This year I found myself more preoccupied with the home lives of some of my students. Every year I know difficult student life stories – as is the same in every school district- but I think that this year I was really examining how much of a difference sitting in my classroom made in their lives and if it didn’t make a difference – what a monumental waste of time for them!

As I think back, in an effort to figure out if I was unhappy at work, I thought about a conversation that took place the last few minutes of one class in February. My students started talking about their break and what they would be doing. One particular conversation between a few students was when one shared that he and his family were finally taking a trip to Florida and how excited he and his siblings were about the trip. I got the sense that this trip had been saved for and planned for years. A few of the other students were telling him which rides to go on, how to avoid long lines, and where to eat. His face was lighting up with excitement.
Then I noticed another student sitting on the fringes of the group – not saying too much. This is a student who wore the same clothes days in a row and wore his coat all day because he refused to put it in his locker for fear someone would take it, even though he never shared his combination with anyone. When the bell rang to end class I honestly felt nauseous. What was the lasting impression that one boy was taking home about English that day -I’m desperately poor and I will never get to Disney?

I recently identified this student exchange, which happened almost seven months ago, as the root of my discontent playing itself out in my body language, enough for my principal to notice. And if he noticed – did my students? I’ve been analyzing this principal or should I say, principle conversation in my head for the last three months and it took my participation in the Capital District Writing Project to give me the courage to really think about what is gnawing at my insides. As a result, I began writing again.

I used to write all the time, about anything. Since the deaths of both my parents, I stopped. I’ve been desperately sad and my personal Disney was buried with my parents. Writing again is so liberating. I forgot, no- refused to remember, what a powerful vehicle writing is -the golden opportunity to see my deepest thoughts. David Grosskopf wrote that writing is “hearing yourself think.” My life has been tumultuous the last four or so years and I was purposely forgetting to listen to myself. Before my parents passed they were infirmed and my son went to Afghanistan three times as an Army Ranger. I felt like I was muddling through every day, hoping that things would be back to normal and on the upswing soon. Writing took a backseat. I spent most of my time caring for my parents and worrying about my son. I told myself I had no time to write, it wasn’t a priority. I couldn’t think about listening to myself, it scared me.

At the urging of my close friend who participated in CDWP a few years ago, I took the plunge and started thinking about my writing again. This last month I’ve been writing and it has been wonderful. I’ve written about my son and it has been cathartic. I’ve written about my parents and it has eased my permanent grief. The words have just been pouring out of me. To me, writing is the opportunity to heal myself by placing my scariest feelings on paper and making no apologies for the way I feel. Writing is pure abandonment and therapy. I’m glad I am listening to myself again.

Ok…now, what about my student who wears his jacket all day because it is the only one he has and is afraid of losing it? He educated me and because of him, I have decided to step up my writing curriculum in the face of SLOs and APPR, yes – I am encouraging narrative writing. I used to be a better writing teacher, I realize that now. My students have stories to tell. I am going to encourage them to put their scariest thoughts on paper and to not apologize for their feelings. Could writing have eased the isolation my student felt that day? Would he even feel comfortable putting his thoughts on paper? I do know if he saw his thoughts – spoke to himself- he would feel better. I can’t change the desperate situations many of my students live in and it has taken me a long time to accept that, but I can foster and encourage a process of feeling comfortable hearing themselves think.

I have considered “writer” a part of my identity since at least as far back as first grade when I wrote my first collection of short stories. The stories all featured the same main character: I Don’t Know (His mother called him I Don’t.). They had great “Who’s on First? What’s on Second” humor, and I read them to anyone who’d listen, and probably even people who wouldn’t.

Writing continued to be part of who I was throughout middle school and high school. I always kept a writer’s notebook filled with poems, mostly inspired from my time exploring my neighborhood and the trails behind it. I wonder what my teachers thought of my work, because looking back at my writing now, I am mostly unimpressed, though there are small glimpses of thoughtful images and clever uses of repetition. Still, while I didn’t stand above classmates in skill, I owned the title of “writer,” because while other kids played video games or watched endless hours of TV, I sat outside and wrote.

Written at age 12:
Come here and look on the ground.
Look closely.
Do you see the tiny worker ants?
Their tired legs
Walking quickly to find food
For her majesty, the queen.
Watch them carry crumbs
Twice their size,
And then hurry into their
Castle of sand.
Popping their heads back up,
To look for danger,
They go back to their job
And search for food.
Sit with me and look on the ground.

In eighth grade I filled an entire composition notebook with a “novel” about one family in crisis. I lovingly created each character. The family became sort of an obsession as I’d doodle their faces in the margins around my notes at school and sketch out their personalities. I invented nicknames, background stories, memories… My love of creating characters followed me into college, and professors repeatedly commented on the tenderness in my writing—my obvious love for my imagined people and their relationships.
Today, among “teacher,” “tap dancer,” “reader,” and “watcher of reality television,” I still list “writer” when asked to describe myself, and I have new obsessions I write about that consume me in equally pleasant ways. I research and ponder and revise my ideas endlessly. As I read, I am delighted by words: their emotion, their sounds: the way they can sizzle or soothe. I constantly search for inspiration in my own life, in the world around me, in the books I read and the conversations I overhear.

The Writing Project sets aside precious time for teachers to practice the craft of writing so they can begin to see themselves as writers if they do not already. We share and celebrate our work and thank each other for offering up such personal parts of ourselves.

I wonder how many of the students I’ve had over the years would say, “I am a writer.” Yes, I make them write daily in class, but is writing a part of who they are? Maybe only a few would own that. As a teacher, is it my job to turn my students all into writers? Should I be disappointed at the end of the year when the same 110 students from September still fail to claim “writer” as a marker of who they are in June?

I am a writer not because of assigned essays where I parroted back info about theme and characterization, research papers where I skillfully paraphrased, or “sonnets” that had ten syllables a line but were written before I quite grasped the idea of an iamb. I am a writer because of the poem I sat down to write after reading the biography of Caroline Blackwood, the verse that spilled out easily when describing the frustration, pain, love and desire I felt all at once for my best friend, and the poem that captured a weeklong trip around England, from a red-quilted bed in a Brighton hotel room to the sprawling necrophilia in Glasgow.

I make time for myself to have these writing experiences. I get inspired, so I write. How often, however, do I provide time for my students to write about their own experiences, obsessions, observations and ideas? How often do I allow time for them to become inspired and act on their inspirations? How often do I encourage them to share and celebrate their words? Obviously not enough, because maybe then they too would embrace their writer identities. Instead of just making sure my kids write, whenever possible, I want to provide them with personal reasons to write.

The Writing Project has given me a great School Year Resolution: Come June 2013, when asked to describe who they are, my students will list identifiers such as, “Facebook user,” “BMXer,” “Xbox player,” “track star,” “lover of tacos,” and “writer.”

Did I care more about what students thought of my practices years ago when I was a fresh-faced newbie to the social and political games we play in the classroom? I certainly was more self-conscious, less self-assured, and lesser metacognitive or in-tune to the ramifications my practice had on each of my student’s minds. How they reacted to my instruction(s), discussion(s), and everything in between could be gauged by a number of ways. So, why aren’t the voices of my students heard by anyone but me by the end of each semester or by year’s end? Shouldn’t their voices carry weight when I’m to be evaluated by the state?

One way by which students evaluate teachers is constant — and organic. Students talk. Whether you’re teaching in a district consisting of 50 students or 1,000 students in a graduating class, they talk with one another. They know your likes, dislikes, and that embarrassing story you always tell about how you once almost died from a baked potato when you were seventeen (true story)! Shouldn’t they have some kind of a say in whether or not you’re “effective”?

Many may argue that this year’s newest acronyms (APPR, SLO, RTI, ABCs, 123s, TTYL, ect.) hinder student learning — well, they’re probably right: those who are arguing against something like the faulty and unsustainable SLOs are generally invested, informed, and well-educated individuals. You know, committed teachers, concerned parents, Daily Show viewers.If you’ve yet to write an SLO, try one. You’ll see they leave everyone SOL. It’s not that they are difficult, so much as they are a ruse. Question: Who’s checking to see whether or not a teacher gives his or her students the answers on the teacher’s “post” exam? Answer: No one. While it’s the integrity and professional sense of ethics that will keep us “effective” teachers from fudging the SLOs, it’s a lack of the former and a twisted misunderstanding of the latter that will keep poor teachers securely ingrained in a system they are and will be manipulating.

I don’t have enough space in this blog for what Holden Caulfield called “all that David Copperfield kind of crap” (Dickens’s Copperfield, not the smoke and mirrors one with coiffed hair), so let me suggest a way by which students might be able to authentically add to the evaluation of a public educator. Because let’s face it, the SLO is completely teacher centered; it is not an accurate reflection of students’ progress — or their voices. And if I can’t hear an honest voice from my students, then I’m stuck listening to my own thoughts when reflecting on past practices.

Students most likely “evaluate” teachers online, and the primary reason for the popularity of online teacher rating sites is, obviously, a student’s natural desire to vent his or her frustrations or counter such comments with praise. I celebrate our first amendment, but social networks and online forums for such comments lack any real credibility, therefore feedback expressed is often illegitimate and unhelpful. Without a doubt, operators for such sites as RateMyTeacher, GreatSchools, or SchoolDigger must continually face serious credibility challenges from anyone able to see the forest for the trees. In other words, there’s no way of proving the the person posting a comment has actually been in your class, nor is there any appropriate context.

While I obviously do not wish for students’ names and personal information to be published online, I do think there needs to be criteria established in order to make something like these rating sites valuable. Shouldn’t we funnel our efforts for online assessment into a source that gives the user an honest result of a teacher or school? Perhaps schools could elect to create their own version of a site like these through an intranet service, thereby allowing students similar criteria for assessing their teachers anonymously but with proof of enrollment in a particular teacher’s class. If each instructor is able to access such feedback, what possible improvements could he or she make in the follow year’s instruction and practice?

The public can continue contributing to sites like those mentioned here, but will it change the way educators conduct self-assessment? Maybe reflection is our only honest way to learn from past practices. When I honestly think back to my first year of teaching public school, I have to cringe a little bit. A bulleted list of what I might have told my former self could run-on for quite a while, so a quick letter might be more effective.

Dear Mr Reach, circa 2007:

Some of your students are probably calling you newbie already. Actually, it’s more like Temp. For some reason they think you look like Ryan, the temp from The Office. Grow a beard. Wait, that might not be enough. So, here are a few other tips.

Metacognatively yours,
Your future self

I think I came into the Capital District Writing Project Summer Institute feeling a bit out of place. Even though I am a certified English teacher, and I taught for three years in public schools, I’ve spent the last two years in the University at Albany’s Educational Theory and Practice doctoral program, pursuing my lifelong goal of becoming an academic. Still certified as an English teacher, now a doctoral student, and not yet a professor, I felt a little lost. I left the retreat asking, who am I?

I never felt like I ever truly fit into the English departments at the schools where I worked. Two years ago, I left the profession making the silent decision that I did not, and would not return to public school teaching. And since making that decision, I’ve felt incredibly guilty and almost ashamed, as though I didn’t have what it takes to cut it. I was taking the easy way out. The feeling of being lost at the retreat in May and during the first couple weeks of the summer institute was something that was hard to describe, let alone discuss. In fact, until writing this, I’ve never actually openly admitted to having these feelings. Even now, I don’t know that I could talk about it, but this blog can serve as the forum for acknowledging and accepting this part of myself as not an admission of weakness or a flaw, but simply as a sign post leading me to the right place.

The right place exists in the words, “teacher educator.” These words have been hard to embrace and I’ve spent the better part of two years saying that I am aspiring to be one, but not feeling as though those words described me just yet. It was not until the planning of my demonstration lesson that my new identity began to emerge from the shadows. Parker Palmer adamantly believes that we can only teach who we are. Is it because I was not an English teacher at heart that my experiences were challenging? I don’t know, but when a professor in the Educational Theory and Practice department asked me to teach Teachers Lives and subsequently Exploring Teaching as a Profession, I rather casually agreed and began the planning process, thinking of all the topics about which I wanted to make my students aware. But the work that we have done in summer institute has cast a new light on my teaching. I looked at my syllabi and asked: what kind of teachers am I inspiring my undergraduates to be? I want them to be socially minded, forward thinking, progressive teachers who are not afraid to challenge the status quo and who engage in reflective practice within a community of teachers. Why? Because this is the stance that I take. I am a rebel. I question. I can only teach who I am. Coming to this realization…I feel more at peace. Entrenched. Placed, finally, within the context of a teacher community, that of teacher educators.

The University has entrusted me with the two undergraduate education classes that help these young adults decide whether or not they want to be teachers. Did my stance influence their decision? Have I let it out all along that I feel this way? My doctoral work, progressive and constructivist, would easily lead one down to this conclusion. My transparency it seems, has been transparent to everyone but me. My blindness to this reality may have been the result of my refusal to let go of my English teacher self. Maybe I’ve been like Sisyphus, pushing the idea that I am an English teacher up the hill when in fact, I am a teacher educator. My calling has taken a new turn and it feels right. And I have thirteen other people to thank for helping me without even knowing it. Thank you.

As it tends to do, the liberal media has unfairly attacked the Texas Republican Party for their stance on education. Before examining the Texas GOP’s stance, I’d like to examine the Texas Democratic Party’s stance: “Texas Democrats believe all children should have access to an exemplary educational program that values and encourages critical thinking and creativity, not the “drill and kill” teach-­‐to-­‐the-­‐test policy Republicans have forced on students and teachers.” This type of fuzzy, wishy-washy language hides the insidious left-leaning indoctrination that our students face every day in schools across the country. On the other hand, the Texas Republican Party has a cut-and-dry stance on the type of education this country needs: “We oppose the teaching of Higher Order Thinking Skills (HOTS) (values clarification), critical thinking skills and similar programs that are simply a relabeling of Outcome-Based Education (OBE) (mastery learning) which focus on behavior modification and have the purpose of challenging the student’s fixed beliefs and undermining parental authority.” Conservatives have a unique understanding of the importance of authority and this is what American Education is lacking. Conservatives fight every day to protect the framework that the founders established in 1776. These are the freedoms that critical and higher-order thinking undermine daily in our classrooms. Teachers should not be challenging young, impressionable children to think for themselves, unraveling all of the values parents have instilled in their children, values like respect and freedom.

The founding fathers never questioned the values that their parents instilled in them. They obeyed, did what they were told, and eventually went on to lay the groundwork for one of the greatest countries in the world. Imagine if some elitist teacher tried to interfere with Thomas Paine, asking him to question the freedom-loving values passed down from his parents. Call me old school, but if it was good for the founders, it’s good enough for me.

Nowadays it’s all about challenging the status quo, trying to move forward, getting away from our past, thinking of new ideas. What’s so bad about the status quo? Why do we need to run away from our past? Let’s be honest for a second, if we question everything, we’ll never be happy with anything. We’re going to have to constantly evolve and change, making improvements along the way. It’s just not possible! Who in their right mind would want that kind of life?

There’s no question more subversive than “why?” and yet that’s the most common question teachers ask of their students. If your child has ever bothered you with thousands of “why” questions, you have a teacher to thank for that. Parents need to be on the lookout for this inquisitive behavior and nip it in the bud before it gets out of control. But now you might be wondering how exactly teachers are developing these behaviors in the youth of America. The answer is writing.

To the champions of critical thought, writing is seen as “transformative” and a means of “effecting change” in the world. What exactly are teachers trying to transform or change? If you’re not willing to admit that America is perfect just the way she is, you’re free to leave. Writing assignments used to focus on important things like penmanship, keeping your right hand dominant, and helping students memorize Bible quotations through rote memorization. Now, states like New York have learning standards that ask students to “explore topics dealing with different cultures and world viewpoints” or “evaluate a speaker’s point of view, reasoning, and use of evidence and rhetoric.” This focus on different perspectives and evaluating the logic of an argument is a slippery slope, one that can only lead children to asking deep, thought-provoking questions, some that may have no right or wrong answers at all!

These forward-thinking progressives have created a system of education that is drastically different from our grandparents’ and would be unrecognizable to the founders. American citizens can sleep sound knowing that conservatives are working hard to return to the past. If conservatives have their way, we’ll see a quick return to memorizing facts and marathon note taking that will have tangible results. With conservative philosophy at the helm, our children could be trivial pursuit champions. All of these writing assignments in which students reflect and analyze, sharing their stories to feel empowered, damage our children, making them believe that they have unique opinions and can change the world with them.

If parents aren’t vigilant, Americans might find their children writing more than grocery lists and instruction manuals. We might be facing a generation for whom “because I said so” might not be an acceptable answer. Parents, let’s get our battle cry ready. Let the teachers of this country know that we won’t sit idly by while they indoctrinate the youth. Let nations around the world hear us when we tell our children not to think for themselves, because we can do that for them.

This summer, I am participating in a writing institute with twelve other educators sponsored by the Capital District Writing Project. We are looking at writing from a myriad of angles. As a teacher-librarian, I cannot help but reflect on the ways libraries support writers and how we can maximize our connections.

For one of our prompts, we were asked, “What is writing?” This was my reflection.

Writing is codifying thoughts. It is expressing emotions, feelings, arguments, facts, in a way that others can access and synthesize into their own psyche. It is storytelling. Writers attempt to put words together in a way that creates meaning; it helps us understand the world.

Writing is also craft. We can use structure to add clarity, precision, order, even chaos, the entire gamut of the human experience.

Writing is an expression of self.

So how can libraries help writers express themselves and create meaning? For part of the answer, we need to look at libraries as place. According to librarian and information technology consultant Joan Frye Williams, libraries “need to stop being the grocery store and start being the kitchen.” She decided to poll library patrons on what they would like to be called. Overwhelmingly, those surveyed wanted to be considered as members of a library, not a guest, or a patron, or a customer. Members — the word already assumes a connection with the whole.

As a writer, I see a great deal of comfort in the place libraries form for ideas to flourish. It is a venue in which one can investigate, collaborate, create and present. It is where writers are encouraged and celebrated. We host book talks, author visits, lectures, Skype sessions and more. We are place both physically and virtually.

As part of the Writing Project experience, I am starting a young adult free-verse novel drawn from family stories. I know the setting, the characters, I need to imagine the plot, the conflict. Because it is based on history, I am doing research by talking to family members and visiting virtual library collections online. Next month, I plan to travel back to my hometown to visit local libraries for their historical collections. Also, I will speak with librarians who know the resources and more importantly, the community. I can also share what I’ve learned from my family.

When I think about my school library, I see students coming to work on various projects who need advice both technical and rhetorical. We all seem to help each other. Teachers come in to talk about their grad school writing assignments, curriculum projects, books they are reading or writing, or to get help with tech integration. We might give them our ideas or what another colleague is doing. We are messing around in the kitchen to see what we can all create.

It is a bit of a mystery to me that newly-minted teachers are not always sure what their school librarian can do for them and the world of their students, what we can do for each other. So if you help prepare pre-service teachers to become dynamic educators, consider inviting a librarian to one of your sessions. After all, libraries contain food for thought, great equipment, and knowledgeable people to help make some really interesting creations. So let’s all put on our aprons.

In the introduction to his book Writing Without Teachers, Peter Elbow recounts his tumultuous relationship with writing. What was at first something he enjoyed, became something complex, overwhelming and for a time unattainable. The pressures of striving for perfection and fearing judgment from others prevented Elbow from writing absolutely anything at all. It was then, he said, “I finally learned to force myself to keep on writing, even if the writing was terrible.”

Though he doesn’t describe it this way, Elbow’s account sounded to me like “writer’s block.” Who hasn’t dealt with that before? Thoughts brewing in your head just waiting to be put down on paper only to be thwarted by the mental incapacity to literally write or type them out. Or perhaps there are no thoughts in your head, just blank space desperately seeking a topic to focus on, but finding none that are worthy or profound enough for expression. I mention these examples because like Elbow, they are the two I’ve struggled with for years. Writing has been such a frustrating task that I rarely feel I put in my best effort and I never like what I write or feel proud of it. From essays for school, to e-mails, text and now cover letters, just getting started requires days and sometimes weeks of processing before I put anything down on paper. For an avid reader, a word lover and an English teacher, this has not only made me feel self-conscious, but embarrassed. In a time when teaching jobs are scarce, low self-esteem isn’t an option, so I sought opportunities (like CDWP) to reinvigorate my mind, soul, and writing hand.

Though I’ve been teaching English for two years, and I’ve participated in the CDWP summer institute for two weeks, it wasn’t until I read Elbow’s introduction that I finally realized how to overcome some of my “block”, or at least attempt to. How am I going to get better at something, how am I going to be able to better teach this subject, how am I going to impress good writing practices on my students if I don’t regularly practice? Sports, music, art – they all require practice to achieve success. Writing is no different. As a musician (I’ve played the viola for 19 years), the idea of practice as a catalyst and necessity for improvement is not new. No one picks up an instrument and plays it perfectly the first time. It takes hours of repetition, hours of mistakes, missed notes and muscle memory to get it right, and right isn’t necessarily perfect. We learn from our imperfect practice.

I’ve always stressed the importance of drafting and feedback in my classroom, that writing truly is a process, but I guess I’m discovering that I haven’t taken my own advice. Why not? Well, it’s hard. I want to wait for the ultimate inspiration, for the desire to write that’s so fierce and explosive it will fly through my fingers in perfectly formed letters and spaces creating the masterpiece that I know my mind is capable of conceiving. Of course to be prepared for the inspiration to arrive I need to be comfortable, not too cold or warm. I need space to move; my seat of choice is a giant chair that will accommodate all 6 feet of me. There should be just enough noise so that it’s not spookily silent, but not too much noise that I’m constantly distracted. Then I need to decide if I write or type? The medium I choose will determine how fast I write or how neat the page looks when I’m finished. So many things need to align for me to be able to even THINK about awaiting the inspiration.

Even as I write this list of requirements, I see how ridiculous they are. My students don’t have those luxuries. They’re forced to sit in the most uncomfortable desk-chair combinations, in classrooms that are almost always either frostbite or sweat-inducing, surrounded by peers – which is by definition distracting – not to mention the fact that their minds are likely thinking about what to eat for lunch, what the latest school gossip is, or when the cute boy or girl next to them will finally look up and flash that incredible smile. So, what is there to do?

Fortunately, there is a solution: force yourself to write. What you write may not be the next Pulitzer Prize winning document, it may not be on the New York Times bestseller list, and it may not garner any attention from anyone but your dog. The fact is, you’ve written something. It can be terrible; it should be terrible. You’ve put words on a page, words that were previously unattainable; that’s a step forward. Your next draft can only be better.

Per Elbow’s advice, I’ve been forcing myself to write every day. It’s not easy, it’s not pretty and it’s definitely not profound, but it’s progress. So yes, it is hard to find the time, it is hard to find the quiet, it is hard to find the perfect topic to write about, but if you don’t at least try you’ll never give yourself the chance to find the unattainable words.

Since participating in the CDWP summer institute in 2006, Aaron has emerged as one of CDWP’s most important leaders. His dedication, insight, and vision have inspired his colleagues and helped make CDWP a more effective vehicle for improving writing, teaching, and learning in our region’s schools. Aaron exemplifies the best ideals of the National Writing Project. He is the kind of educator any parent would want their child to have. He is the kind of mentor every teacher should have. And he is the kind of colleague who helps make others better professionals.

We at CDWP wish Aaron all the best in his new professional endeavors. We are enormously proud to have him as a colleague and to know that he will now be leading his new colleagues in his never-ending quest to make schools better, more humane, and effective places for kids and for teachers.

As Aaron loves to say, write on!

Bob Yagelski
Director, CDWP

Because the National Writing Project lost its federal support last year and must now support its programs through alternative funding streams that limit how it can use its resources, CDWP faces new challenges in pursuing its mission of helping teachers and administrators improve writing, teaching, and learning in our region’s schools. But given the current climate in education, it is clear that the support that CDWP provides teachers is more important than ever.

Here’s some of what teachers said at our recent meeting about the importance of CDWP as a community where teachers are valued as professionals:

“CDWP is a vehicle for opening our imaginations about what is possible.”

“CDWP helped me realize that the rigors of reflection are career-long. This reflection gives me confidence in my teaching.”

“Writing together with our CDWP colleagues is energizing.”

“The writing project reminds me, Bring it back to writing. We’re telling our stories. We’re telling the truth.”

“You can’t really fix problems if you’re not telling truth about what’s happening in your classrooms. At CDWP we get to say what’s real without any fear about who is listening.”

“I can’t imagine existing in the education universe without the energy I derive from CDWP.”

It is an honor and a privilege to be able to work with such dedicated professionals who continue to work tirelessly on behalf of their students in the face of increasingly daunting challenges. It is these teachers and others like them who will make schools better–not mandates and tests. They deserve a place where their insights can be heard. CDWP is such a place.

Bob Yagelski
Director, CDWP