Employers of Words

My students are holding an essay in their hands.

They pore over it and mark, in pen, the elements they like, as well as recommendations for improvement.

As they discuss the piece, they realize each of them only had an incomplete portion of the piece of writing. Thus, they are forced to engage with one another.

"Wait, do you have page one? What was the thesis?"

"Who has the last page? Did they come back to that initial anecdote?"

"What was the author getting at here in this block quote? Do they analyze it on the next page?"

Overall, they enjoy the essay, but it is different from the literature they generally engage with in eighth grade, because the essay they are reading was written by an eighth grader.

We rarely share writing with one another as adults, but what better way to learn to write than by reading assignments of others who have done the same, and who shared our goals? What does a great thank you letter look like? What about an email? A cover letter? An apology? Words matter so much, but we seldom see things outside of formal writing in books and periodicals.

The one wrinkle here is that this isn't peer editing because the essay they're reading was written by one of my former students...someone who sat in their seats years ago.

See, that is one of the beauties of teaching. While I get wiser each year (hopefully), my students are always eighth graders. I love that and I love hearing them refer to my former anonymous student as "the author."

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I received an email from the parent of a former student this week. The student is now in college and had written a piece for their school's literature magazine about rape culture and the responsibility of colleges. The piece was beautifully written and--as a result of the troubling topic and the student's strength as a writer--very difficult to read. It was hard to read something so raw and painful from someone I had only known as a 14 year old.

But, I supposed that's what happens. Children become adults.

It made me think about where my students end up as writers. Perhaps they become authors or publish articles in their college newspapers. 

Perhaps they don't.

Maybe they grow to write a poignant and meaningful thank you note, or a cover letter that takes a future employer's breath away. Maybe they just leave a note on the kitchen counter for a future spouse that keeps their relationship intact or heals a moment of miscommunication with a friend. 

What I felt as I read my former student's writing, and as I watched my current students read the work of someone who is off in the world writing something different and new, was the gravity of our words.

Our words matter and when we date our work and save it, we leave a trail of insights and development around the ways we interact with the world. 

What we write today becomes tomorrow's history, but it's also capable of influencing the present audience that experiences it, and it serves as a stepping stone for our futures as writers and employers of words.

Human Beings vs Human Doings

I was speaking to a student recently about time management. I laid out some strategies and recommendations about how he could prioritize those elements of his life that were both urgent and important. I was beginning to discuss the notion of "triage" when he cut me off,

"Mr. McDonough, wrestling season is starting soon. I'll have practice every day. I will be fine. I'll be so busy I won't have time to procrastinate."

I was shocked, but not surprised. Of course my student felt this because it's the way we have to be. When we are slogged with responsibility, weighted down by the burden of it all, we just we don't have a choice.

This week was that way for me. My wife was away at a conference and every night existed with a HUGE responsibility, but also sandwiched in between was so much joy. My responsibilities are rich with life and entrenched in the experience of being human.

Yet still, when someone close to me recently said, "Will, you aren't a human being right now, you are a human doing." I realized they were right. And through realizing this I can empathize in meaningful ways with my students.

I need to remember, as Thich Nhat Hanh writes, "I am here to be here."

Human being, not human doing.

Orange Cones & Picture Frames

I place an orange cone on a desk and ask my students to describe the object.

What is this?

What is its primary function?

Next, I place an empty picture frame.

Again, I ask

What is this?

What is its primary function?

The answers range, but generally they land on 

A traffic cone is used for identifying hazards.

A picture frame is used to identify things that are noteworthy.

I then asked my 9th graders to consider which object they use metaphorically in their lives on a regular basis.

Do they highlight the anxiety-inducing hazards, or emphasize the noteworthy beauties and accomplishments of their days?

They all agreed that the tests, failures, and faux pas tend to overwhelm their days with orange cones and caution tape.

The small victories and nice moments? They hardly notice them.

We then discussed how one job of a leader is to look for opportunity and inspiration in the everyday and the mundane. Leaders need to shift an organization or team's focus onto areas for growth and development. They need to look at things that are easy to address and that are important...things that shift culture, that create norms and traditions, and that reinforce values.

So what did my brilliant students do next?

We took a field trip around campus to hold the frames up and identify everyday moments of inspiration, opportunities for joy, or ideas for how or where we could draw our communal attention to invite a manifestation of GOOD to overtake our campus.

I was happy.

I was inspired.

I was, as always, following my students.

Let's focus more on framing the good instead of cautioning against the danger in our lives this week.

After all, schools should be places where student leaders are constantly seeking places to grow and evolve the culture...not places where anxiety and orange cones become the culture.