Today my students finished presenting their Writing Modes Projects. To begin the unit, I told them to pick anything as a topic because I wanted them to write about something they loved. I wanted them to get excited about writing, so the only requirement was that they take their topic and use it to write three short essays: one narrative, one persuasive, and one informative. The final product was to be a presentation where they shared all three with the class.
One of the last presentations of the day was by a girl who I haven't really gotten to know this year. She's quiet and painfully shy. She has fiery red hair and her cheeks seem to match its shade anytime I approach her for conversation. It's hard to tell whether she likes school, my class, or even me... but for Christmas she did give me a bookmark, homemade out of a popsicle stick and puff paint. Her project topic: bullying.
As she approached the front of the room, I noticed my heart beating a little faster, my cheeks surely matching hers shade for shade with each step. She's in a class with some of the school's worst behavior problems - a group of kids to whom I'm constantly saying, "be nice." This in itself would've made me nervous enough... but the fact that she'd chosen bullying as her topic, the fact that I'd read her rough drafts, made me question if I was cruel to allow her to share in front of this group.
Her back faced the room and her shoulders slouched as she sat her presentation board on the table up front. She pulled back the right flap to reveal the word "gossip" written in big bubble letters. My glare had to stifle snickers throughout the room. The rest of the board featured similar words, a set of big red lips out of which spewed various hostilities, and of course, her essays.
"I'll read my narrative first," she said, eyes focused on the floor.
"OK! Go ahead, honey!" It sounded hollow and meaningless. A meager attempt to soften the ensuing blow.
Here is what she read:
I was entering my new school with a chilling breeze when I froze still in the front door. I was greeted with a warm air brushing against my arm. That would be the last warmth I felt.
My first day they called me names and said no one loved me. That stuck with me for a while in my mind. Some of the snobby pretty girls said I'm weird and ugly. They also said I don't belong in their school. The rest of the school year I didn't feel important. For the years to come, in my depressing, dark, cold soul, I heard K and his gang of friends along with the girls who talked behind my back, wishing desperately I'd disappear.
I ignored them whenever it was time to go outside - my time to escape the torment inside. I dashed to the fantasy of my dreams, the playground on top of a steep hill. It was simply the place where every child wanted to go. One day I was walking alone thinking of what crazy things I would do when I got home, when all of a sudden people pummeled me with rocks. A while later when it was time to go, they pushed and shoved like I wasn't there. I just told myself that bullies wanted to get in fights with me because they thought I was too nice.
For a few seconds, I, like the rest of the class, was frozen. I looked down to find my hands folded in nervous tension, knuckles white, her grading rubric blank. I couldn't write anything. Her eyes still had not left the sheet of paper in her shaking hands. I took a reluctant glance at the faces of her audience. A couple of them, literally, had dropped jaws. A few of the less mature ones tried to find the eyes of their buddies in hopes they could share a laugh. Nothing of the sort happened. One brave kid began to clap.
I winked at her and said, "All right. That was excellent, S. Which one will you read next?"
Her next two essays were equally as impressive - the informative aptly explained the different methods and effects of bullying. For her persuasive, I was proud that she chose to be more creative than simply arguing that bullying should stop. She offered various bullying solutions specific to our school.
When I finally brought myself to fill out her rubric, I found it difficult to write anything at all, let alone any constructive criticism. I wanted to be proud of her vivid language, but critique the essay's shaky transitions. I wanted to commend her on her use of "live" verbs but caution her against switching tenses. It all seemed so trivial. She had written something from her heart, something from her own inner diary, and she had read it in front of a room that would make any confident adult at least a little nervous.
Instead of writing a grade at the bottom of her rubric, I wrote, "Come see me." When I handed it to her, I assured her that it was for a good reason, but as usual she simply turned red and offered only the shadow of a grin.
To be honest, I have no idea what I'll say to her. I've already put a 100 in the grade book, because even though her essays weren't perfect, they were lightyears better than her peers'. What I really want to do is make sure she's OK. I want to make sure those things don't happen at this new school, and I want to tell her how proud she made me, that I know how hard it must have been to get up and share such personal information. What's odd is how nervous I am to have that conversation. I'm suddenly intimidated by a twelve-year-old who exudes such wisdom. I'm afraid she'll see through my shallow attempt to check on her now... after she had to slap me across the face with her struggle. I'm also afraid it's too late to make anything better for her.
One of the last presentations of the day was by a girl who I haven't really gotten to know this year. She's quiet and painfully shy. She has fiery red hair and her cheeks seem to match its shade anytime I approach her for conversation. It's hard to tell whether she likes school, my class, or even me... but for Christmas she did give me a bookmark, homemade out of a popsicle stick and puff paint. Her project topic: bullying.
As she approached the front of the room, I noticed my heart beating a little faster, my cheeks surely matching hers shade for shade with each step. She's in a class with some of the school's worst behavior problems - a group of kids to whom I'm constantly saying, "be nice." This in itself would've made me nervous enough... but the fact that she'd chosen bullying as her topic, the fact that I'd read her rough drafts, made me question if I was cruel to allow her to share in front of this group.
Her back faced the room and her shoulders slouched as she sat her presentation board on the table up front. She pulled back the right flap to reveal the word "gossip" written in big bubble letters. My glare had to stifle snickers throughout the room. The rest of the board featured similar words, a set of big red lips out of which spewed various hostilities, and of course, her essays.
"I'll read my narrative first," she said, eyes focused on the floor.
"OK! Go ahead, honey!" It sounded hollow and meaningless. A meager attempt to soften the ensuing blow.
Here is what she read:
I was entering my new school with a chilling breeze when I froze still in the front door. I was greeted with a warm air brushing against my arm. That would be the last warmth I felt.
My first day they called me names and said no one loved me. That stuck with me for a while in my mind. Some of the snobby pretty girls said I'm weird and ugly. They also said I don't belong in their school. The rest of the school year I didn't feel important. For the years to come, in my depressing, dark, cold soul, I heard K and his gang of friends along with the girls who talked behind my back, wishing desperately I'd disappear.
I ignored them whenever it was time to go outside - my time to escape the torment inside. I dashed to the fantasy of my dreams, the playground on top of a steep hill. It was simply the place where every child wanted to go. One day I was walking alone thinking of what crazy things I would do when I got home, when all of a sudden people pummeled me with rocks. A while later when it was time to go, they pushed and shoved like I wasn't there. I just told myself that bullies wanted to get in fights with me because they thought I was too nice.
For a few seconds, I, like the rest of the class, was frozen. I looked down to find my hands folded in nervous tension, knuckles white, her grading rubric blank. I couldn't write anything. Her eyes still had not left the sheet of paper in her shaking hands. I took a reluctant glance at the faces of her audience. A couple of them, literally, had dropped jaws. A few of the less mature ones tried to find the eyes of their buddies in hopes they could share a laugh. Nothing of the sort happened. One brave kid began to clap.
I winked at her and said, "All right. That was excellent, S. Which one will you read next?"
Her next two essays were equally as impressive - the informative aptly explained the different methods and effects of bullying. For her persuasive, I was proud that she chose to be more creative than simply arguing that bullying should stop. She offered various bullying solutions specific to our school.
When I finally brought myself to fill out her rubric, I found it difficult to write anything at all, let alone any constructive criticism. I wanted to be proud of her vivid language, but critique the essay's shaky transitions. I wanted to commend her on her use of "live" verbs but caution her against switching tenses. It all seemed so trivial. She had written something from her heart, something from her own inner diary, and she had read it in front of a room that would make any confident adult at least a little nervous.
Instead of writing a grade at the bottom of her rubric, I wrote, "Come see me." When I handed it to her, I assured her that it was for a good reason, but as usual she simply turned red and offered only the shadow of a grin.
To be honest, I have no idea what I'll say to her. I've already put a 100 in the grade book, because even though her essays weren't perfect, they were lightyears better than her peers'. What I really want to do is make sure she's OK. I want to make sure those things don't happen at this new school, and I want to tell her how proud she made me, that I know how hard it must have been to get up and share such personal information. What's odd is how nervous I am to have that conversation. I'm suddenly intimidated by a twelve-year-old who exudes such wisdom. I'm afraid she'll see through my shallow attempt to check on her now... after she had to slap me across the face with her struggle. I'm also afraid it's too late to make anything better for her.
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