Putting Books in Kids' Hands

The title above has many meanings:

1. It's my favorite part of my job. I LOVE finding the right book for the right kid. I love seeing them get lost in a book, and I feel great pride and like a good teacher when I'm the one who found that book for them.

2. It's our responsibility as adults. I want my students to be independent readers, and part of that is finding books on thier own. But that takes time. It also takes teaching. As adults--teachers, parents, librarians, booksellers--it is up to us to help teach children to find books they love. For me this means keeping a library of over 800 books in my classroom, checking out books from the public library and letting my students read them, buying books I think they will love, etc.

3. It's the title of my curret Donors Choose project. Donors Choose is a fantastic organization that allows teachers to post their needs and people interested in investing in students to make a donation towards those needs. My current project, when funded, will provide 50 books (over $500 worth) to my kiddos. Right now I have 66 students. I will have at least that many again in the spring. Former students come back by to check out books. I have random students I've never met come see me for books because word gets around that I have them. Right now I have the chance to get this project funded through Sonic's Limeades for Learning initiative. Between now and October 26th, go to https://www.limeadesforlearning.com/projects/1321095 and vote for my project. Share via the site and get more votes. If you go to Sonic during this time, you should get a sticker on your drink cup or bag with extra vote codes. You can enter them at the link above.

My students are so excited about this. Please vote and share to help me provide them with the books they need to become lifelong learners and readers.

Continue Reading...

On Validating Writers

The following is a repost from May, 2012. These thoughts ring true right now as I am in the midst of reading the first major piece of writing from my juniors. 


As of 10:00 this morning, I am a free woman. At least until school starts back the first of August. Oh, how I have missed you Summer Break!! Usually I spend my summers working with teachers with the Middle TN Writing Project, so all of June is in a classroom that requires an hours drive each way. I love every minute of it. We're changing things up this year, though, so I won't be going every day. Instead I'll be developing some online professional development programs and organizing a three hour session to present to my faculty. But that I can do from home, so no commute, no spending my summer salary on gas, and no racking up miles on my still-smells-new car.

Right now the husband is outside dong something, the kid is at her grandparents' house slipping and sliding, I am (for once) not in the middle of reading a book, and the laundry can wait. It's the perfect time to write. But my novel and I are not speaking right now. The first draft is technically done, but I'm trying to add a few needed scenes before I officially declare that. Since this is a much larger project than anything I have written before, I'm finding it to be quite a challenge to add significant sections in at this point. With a five page narrative, there's only so much to add. And finding said parts is easy. Wading through a couple of hundred pages looking for one scene, not so much. But something happened yesterday that made me think of something that happened several years ago, and I wanted to share it. I'm actually not commenting on what happened yesterday: that's another post, but here's the other story.

In 2000, I had the most amazing composition professor. Dr. Hagaman was like a grandfather to his students: gentle and kind. He shared his writing with us, and never criticized anyone to my knowledge. One of our assignments was to write a "Literacy Autobiography" explaining how we got to where we were with language. I'll have to retype it and post it at some point. Dr. Hagaman praised my writing in my final portfolio, but even with that and so many other compliments on my writing, I did not see myself as a writer.

Fast forward to December 2007. I was back at my alma mater, taking the last two classes for my Master's degree. Dr. Hagaman and I met each other in the hallway of the main liberal arts building. He stopped me and said, "Didn't we have a class together several years ago?" When I answered that, yes, I had taken two of his classes, he said, "Yes, yes. You wrote that wonderful piece about listening to the music of Opryland from your backyard." That is exactly what my literacy autobiography was about.

He didn't remember my name, or even which class I had been in, but he remembered my writing. That's when I began to see myself as a writer.

That moment inspired me to write more and to share my writing. But more importantly, it changed how I respond to students' work. It is hard to share your words with an audience, and we all--teenagers and adults both--just want someone to get what we're saying. I try to focus my comments around that: getting what they are saying, connecting to it. It's not all praise. I wouldn't be a good teacher or fellow writer if it was, but I really want my kids to know that I am hearing their words. When I start with the good and offer specific praise, I find that my students are more apt to take my criticisms to heart. They want sentence two to be as good as I said sentence one was.

But they want to be heard. They want me to know them. And when I remember sometihng they wrote weeks later--maybe even when they are no longer my students--they know their English teacher cared about them as a person. That will always be goal one for me.

Continue Reading...

Small Moments of Success

I stare at the screen of my Kindle, afraid to look up. It's the first day of indepdendent reading in my standard junior English class, and it's so quiet that the only possible scenarios are that all twenty students are asleep or they've left.

But they haven't done either. They are reading.

Well, nineteen of them are. "CJ" is not, which doesn't surprise me since he was the only student out of the sixty plus I have on my course load this semester to not turn in something for the initial in class writing I assigned. I also had an email from his mom before the end of the first day asking me to email her if he was absent. And he's made it clear that he could better spend his time working, that school is standing in his way of making money, and he's dropping out on his eighteenth birthday. That's in six months, and given that he's still classified as a freshman, I'm not sure there's much I can do to change his mind.

When I ask the students to find a stopping place, I'm met with a few relieved sighs, but more protests. Those make my heart happy. Once again, it took only one class period for me to prove that teenagers like reading--teachers just need to help them find the right book and give them time and space to read. CJ, though, loudly tells the class that he read ZERO pages. He's so proud. The other students look at him like he has three heads, which shuts him up much faster than I could.

The next day I walk up to him during a transition between activities. "Look," I say, "I know you don't like to read. I get it." He smiles a bit at my acknowledgement, which is a nice change from his typical scowl. "But what if I found a book for you about something you're interested in. Would you give it a try for me?" He says he will, and says he'll give me some topics to look into.

He doesn't, and now it's time for indepedent reading once again. Every other student in the class is lost in a book; his head in down on his desk. I walk over to my shelves stuffed with over 700 books and choose five, making sure to select short books so I don't set myself up for failure. "Why don't you look these over and see if any of them speak to you. Just start with the back covers," I say. He huffs and makes a show of fake slipping through the books, distracting the others as he does. I settle back on my stool and ignore him.

When I sneak a peek at him a few minutes later, he's picked on of the books up. He sees me and immediately puts the book back down. I ignore him.

As class ends, he brings four of the five books back to me. "I think I'll try this one," he says. "It looks okay."

"Be careful," I warn. "you might accidentally enjoy it." He smiles again.

And when independent reading time comes around the next week, he takes out his book and immediately begins to read. No arguments, no posturing. He's reading. And in that moment, I don't care that the book is of horrible quality or that he's only read sixteen pages when some of his classmates have already read 1,500. All I care about is that this could very well be his last English class, and the act of reading a book he chose for pleasure is a skill he can take with him. It's a way he can keep learning even if he chooses to give up on school.

Continue Reading...