My son, Jonah, is four and a half and learning to write his name.
We sit and eat breakfast and we look at the fridge.
Two dinosaur magnets hold up his masterpiece:
a piece of paper on which he has twice
drawn his first and last names.
I say drawn intentionally, because he made shapes,
he formed lines and curves and connections between.
He did not write because he is still learning how.
There is nothing simple about the ways he had to
focus, the way he willed his fingers to grip the pencil
and push it in the way he knew he should.
I feel his pride in the kitchen. I see it in his eyes.
What he's done is hard, but he never doubted he could do it.
He exhausted himself, but never did he hesitate.
He was hopeful because he believed.
He was resilient because he knows, deep down,
"I will get this. I will learn to write my name.
And as I do, it will get easier."
Hope only exists when we believe things can change,
when we adopt that mindset of growth and resilience
that begins in a whisper,
"I can't do this yet.."
then screams in crescendo,
"But I will not stop...I will not stop...because
I believe."
My son believes and, at four and a half,
why should he not?
For he has not yet learned the word
impossible. He has not learned to fail.
He has only learned to press on regardless
in hopeful pursuit of what he hasn't mastered
yet.
When Will McDonough was a little boy, he loved to learn. In fact, he still does. Will is a teacher now, and every Thursday he writes about something he's learning in the classroom. He's pretty busy, so he takes just 30 minutes to free write; then, regardless of how polished the ideas or mechanics might be, he publishes it. It's incomplete. It's a start. And it feels good.
Thursday, February 16, 2017
Thursday, February 2, 2017
Storytelling
"You guys are all made up of stories." - Laconia Therrio
Yesterday, the 8th grade began working on our storytelling unit which meant a visit from Laconia. Laconia visits my school every February to work with students on practicing stories and fables they'll rehearse and perform to younger students. He's been doing it for almost 20 years, coming into classes, modeling stories, workshopping students' development...all in an effort to help them own their stories.
Laconia will often ask, "Do you love your story?" When a student answers, "No," he often replies: "I can tell. I think you should consider choosing a new one."
He oozes wisdom, humor, warmth, and helps the students become confident in their own skin, both as storytellers and as humans. He puts them at ease
The first thing he has them do is write their names on the board.
"Write it however you want," he coaches.
Then, he introduces himself to each student, observing how they've scrawled their names upon the board and suggesting what we might learn about each student based upon the way their names are written. Who wrote in huge block letters? Who added stars or dotted the "i"s with hearts? Who wrote small? Who was rushed and who took their time? Who used cursive?
He also asks students where their families are from. If they say "India," he asks them which state their family came from. If they say "China," he asks whether they speak any Mandarin or Cantonese? If they say no, he teaches them how to greet each other in that language.
Laconia is breaking ground, treading in the grey water between himself and each of them. He makes jokes about having a Greek first name, an Irish middle name, a French last name, and being black...
He tells Jewish folktales, personal stories from his childhood in Louisiana, and African legends.
He scares students with "jump tales" and inspires them with proverbs.
But, through it all he models humility and grace...he shows them that they are now a part of his story, and he is a part of theirs.
I learn from Laconia every year, and I love having him in my classroom because he teaches us that our stories are about so much more than ourselves. Last night my students' English homework was to ask their parents to tell them a story about their grandparents. We are the children of stories and the experience of oral tradition matters in an era of technology, too.
Brene Brown writes,"If we own the story, then we can write the ending." We must do that. We must be courageous with our own stories, and we must listen to the stories of the people around us.
Yesterday, the 8th grade began working on our storytelling unit which meant a visit from Laconia. Laconia visits my school every February to work with students on practicing stories and fables they'll rehearse and perform to younger students. He's been doing it for almost 20 years, coming into classes, modeling stories, workshopping students' development...all in an effort to help them own their stories.
Laconia will often ask, "Do you love your story?" When a student answers, "No," he often replies: "I can tell. I think you should consider choosing a new one."
He oozes wisdom, humor, warmth, and helps the students become confident in their own skin, both as storytellers and as humans. He puts them at ease
The first thing he has them do is write their names on the board.
"Write it however you want," he coaches.
Then, he introduces himself to each student, observing how they've scrawled their names upon the board and suggesting what we might learn about each student based upon the way their names are written. Who wrote in huge block letters? Who added stars or dotted the "i"s with hearts? Who wrote small? Who was rushed and who took their time? Who used cursive?
He also asks students where their families are from. If they say "India," he asks them which state their family came from. If they say "China," he asks whether they speak any Mandarin or Cantonese? If they say no, he teaches them how to greet each other in that language.
Laconia is breaking ground, treading in the grey water between himself and each of them. He makes jokes about having a Greek first name, an Irish middle name, a French last name, and being black...
He tells Jewish folktales, personal stories from his childhood in Louisiana, and African legends.
He scares students with "jump tales" and inspires them with proverbs.
But, through it all he models humility and grace...he shows them that they are now a part of his story, and he is a part of theirs.
I learn from Laconia every year, and I love having him in my classroom because he teaches us that our stories are about so much more than ourselves. Last night my students' English homework was to ask their parents to tell them a story about their grandparents. We are the children of stories and the experience of oral tradition matters in an era of technology, too.
Brene Brown writes,"If we own the story, then we can write the ending." We must do that. We must be courageous with our own stories, and we must listen to the stories of the people around us.
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