My apathetic seniors.
My listless, sleepy crew that dutifully meanders into the classroom on
Green Days, but only as close to the 8:20 bell as possible without being tardy. My likeable slugs who rarely have their
materials with them, who still haven’t gotten used to getting out their writer’s
notebooks to answer the prompt written on the board every day since August 4,
and yet who still gnaw at me to find a way to connect to them.
We have ditched July’s carefully crafted plan to appeal to
popular culture with a Gothic unit and have shifted to the outdoors as a theme. Anything related to outdoors, the one place
most of them would rather be than stuck inside my concrete block walls, even
though I have painstakingly plastered them with motivational posters, student
work, inspiring quotes, class-generated anchor charts, and pictures of famous
writers. They couldn’t care less.
This week, like other hopeful highly effective teachers, I used
the data I had collected from their pre-assessment to divide the pack into
three smaller, more manageable groups, so it’s not so easy for them to snooze
in the back. And like a savvy teacher, I even remembered to
document my use of data as evidence for my future evaluation.
Each group had a poem connected to the outdoors and a student
whom I immediately proclaimed the expert in the group based on his 100% score on
the poetry terms pretest.
The gasps and groans commenced. “How’d he get so smart?” “ A hundred percent!” “Are you kidding?”
We had already done a model together with Elizabeth Bishop’s“The Fish.” Three reads, a la Cris Tovani, and deeper each
time: Once for what it says; once for what it means; and a third time, more
deeply, for why it matters. The why it
matters part stumped them. Why would anyone care about an old battered fish and
some fisherman/woman- they couldn’t decide- throwing it back? Most of these kids had done that lots of
times.
Then Kim quietly offered a thought: “It’s about respect.”
Heads turned. Sleepy
eyes opened. “What are you thinking?” I asked
her.
She elaborated, albeit tentatively: “It’s about respecting something.
Even though it’s ugly and old, it can be beautiful.”
I nodded and smiled at my star. Then we dug into the poem for evidence that
would support Kim’s idea. A few other
stars found it while their peers nodded and smiled and copied down the evidence.
Later, as they read new poems in their groups, their
interest fizzled with the third read.
Why does it matter to be “acquainted with the night?” Why does it matter that “The Negro Speaks
of Rivers?” Why does an old root cellar
matter?
Summoned to each group by the ensuing moans, I offered a
little background about the poet or asked about the era in which he lived or
suggested a part to reread. Heads
tilted and eyes shifted as students began thinking.
Suddenly, the room changed. It had come alive, as students blurted out
ideas. Higher order thinking ideas. Ideas that connected a theme to the
poem. It was as if some worker had thrown
the switch that illuminated each bulb in a random sequence around the three
circles. The circus was open for
business! Some students went back to the
text, exclaiming that they had found evidence.
Other students gaped in amazement, then quickly jotted down notes. Everyone
was engaged and amazed at their performance as a group. They could analyze poetry!
All my carefully-crafted discussions about themes and
characterization and conflict from the Gothic unit that had fallen flat now suddenly
had impact and relevance in poetry, poetry about places these kids would rather
be, and places that they know.
The circus is open!
Now my new challenge: Keep the future acts exciting, the cotton
candy deliciously fresh, and the timing just right to reach ever amazingly new
heights. That’s my ringmaster’s job.
