Reflection

Reflection

Part I-
Why I Chose What I Chose

You may have noticed me on our field trips. I was the one lugging around the ten pound laptop instead of the cute little journal. It’s the way my mind works….five words forward and two words back, eight words forward and four words back….and an eraser just isn’t as efficient as the backspace key. Each word that I type is revised again and again as I go. The method is tedious, but usually by the time I’m done writing, the piece is close to being in its final form. Any changes that are made after the process is complete are typically major changes, like a whole section that I decide to leave out, or sometimes I decide to go in a completely different direction than I had originally intended.

The first piece of writing that I included in my portfolio is a found poem entitled “The History of Jackson McGee and Allison Dupree.” I wrote this poem during our field trip to downtown Greenville. We learned how to create a found poem from Rebecca Kaminski’s demonstration. For me this has been a great strategy for writing poetry. Writing a great poem usually requires about eight hours of my free time, hence I have only ever written two or three great poems in my life, with none in between. The fact that this strategy has enabled me to write a poem in a matter of thirty minutes or less speaks for the ingeniousness of it. This poem was inspired by two main types of media. One was a poster in the window of the Sticky Fingers restaurant that beckoned to those who passed by, “Do you know your blue’s name?” It was a candy store of words, which I quickly jotted down. The second source for my inspiration came from a previous field trip to downtown Greenville that I took with my students in the spring. There was the ubiquitous couple making out…on the bridge, in the park, on the rocks, sitting on the bench. I took pictures, with my zoom lens, just so people would believe me. Together, the image of the couple combined with the words from the poster became the poem about Jackson McGee and Allison Dupree.

The second piece in my portfolio is my first attempt at professional writing. It’s an article that I wrote entitled, “Riveting Rubric Writing.” One of the most influential classes that I have ever taken was on assessments. It revolutionized my philosophy on grading. I made changes in my teaching practices that encouraged students and promoted success in my classroom. Ever since that class, assessment is something that I feel strongly about, which is why I chose it as the subject of my professional piece. I learned quickly after posting my article on e-anthology that other people also have strong feelings about assessment. I received a lot of useful feedback which I used to refine my rubric and my article, and also some not so useful feedback that I ignored.

The third sample in my portfolio is a memoir entitled “Discovering Greatness.” I began writing this piece during Jamie’s demo on biographies. It’s one of my favorite pieces that I have ever written. I’m not sure why. I guess it’s just being in a place that I can look back at the awkward years, and I’m finally old enough to be able to laugh at them. Growing up on Sixteen Candles, Pretty in Pink, and Summer Sisters, the whole coming of age theme greatly appeals to me as a writer.

The final piece in my portfolio, which was also the first one I wrote during this course is a kind of stream of consciousness/ commentary entitled, “The Nutshell in a Crazy.” I wrote it just after attending the Katy Wood Ray conference. Because it was written back in May, you will have to click on “older posts” at the bottom of my blog to access it. I like this one for several reasons. It does not appear to be the most refined, which appeals natural desire to ignore rules yet not get into trouble…after all it is my blog and my commentary. As I wrote this piece, my thoughts were influenced by Katy Wood Ray, and my writing style by Anne Lamott. This is just reaffirming that I was not wasting my time in this class. Finally, I asked one of my coworkers to view my blog, and he took up my comment space responding with his own little commentary. I enjoyed the bantering, and was proud to have written a piece that would evoke such emotion in someone.

Part II
What I Revised and Why

My first piece of writing did not undergo any major revisions after the write/ rewrite/ rewrite/ rewrite/ rewrite process that I go through with everything I write. Also, in staying true to the Found Poem Rules, besides rearranging words, there was only so much that I could revise. There was one part in the poem that I kept changing around:

with washboard ribs,
sugar lips
and seven white teeth,
killer legs
and gumbo hips
freshly squeezed into perfection

I wanted washboard ribs to come after the line before, which used the word “skinny.” I knew I wanted lips and teeth to follow, but then I was torn between which should come first, legs or hips. In one of my earlier drafts I opted for the hips to come first because I liked the way the end rhyme sounded when it was close together; however, being a pear shaped woman with hips that are three sizes larger than my upper body, I wanted the hips to be freshly squeezed into perfection, rather than the legs. I decided to sacrifice the sound for the imagery. All of the changes that I made to this poem were a matter of personal preference.

To tell you the truth, I was amazed that anyone on e-anthology even responded to my “Riveting Rubric Writing,” which has changed names three times. I received some of the most opinionated responses of all to this piece. Some people really loved it, and others politely disliked it. Whether people liked it or didn’t like it, they both did a fine job of offering useful criticism. Madalyn felt that I had an imperialistic tone towards rural culture. Seeing as how I did not want to offend anyone in my first paragraph, I deleted the following lines:


When I say rural, I mean cows grazing in fields where there could be shopping malls, and kids watchin’ dog fights and chicken fights instead of cable TV. Our school serves students from all over the county.

Patricia reminded me that I didn’t mention what grade level I taught, so I added that into my final draft. She also said that I should shorten the article. While I agreed with Patricia, I also agreed with Tom who thought I needed to add student voices, which I took to mean samples. In response to this, I removed the following lines which did more to express my voice more than content:

Just as we (the posters and I) were about to leave the classroom, they screamed, “The book, don’t leave the book!” I walked over to my desk and picked up the nearly forgotten 6 + 1 Traits of Writing text, leaving behind a sad and vulnerable looking rectangle that would not longer be protected from dust. But we couldn’t sit around feeling sorry for the desk. We had work to do (see Writing Rubric).

Tom’s feedback led me to add some samples from Joseph’s essay to demonstrate how the rubric addressed specific issues in his writing. After reposting my article and changing the title I only received two responses. Madalyn read my article again and loved it, but Allison apparently doesn’t like rubrics. Although she didn’t actually say this, she suggested that I research the history of rubrics and include this in my writing. I personally think she may have been trying to ensure that no one ever read my article by encouraging me to make it as boring as possible; however, she did make a good point about how I addressed conventions in my rubric. It originally implied that students should only write in standard American English, which completely ignores the fact that dialect and slang are important and necessary at times, depending on the purpose and audience. This led me to revise that section of my rubric.

I’m not sure what I was thinking when I began writing “Discovering Greatness.” In the beginning it was about my struggle to be a “submissive” wife, and it talked a good bit about why I, therefore, hate Sunday school. In my memoir I hinted around about how being brought in a matriarchal home causes me to rebel against the idea of submission. My writing group suggested that I go into more details about what it was like in my family. This led me to write about the time my mom had a double mastectomy. It was such an obvious display of self-determination. And then somehow the whole rest of the story was about my life long search for this great and hidden talent that I believed I had. I finished the story late one night and read it aloud to my husband. He laughed hysterically until I got to the part about Sunday school, and then he just sat there and stared at me, and then he went to bed. I loved that part of my memoir. And there I was, faced with the same issue of submission. He said he thought it made it seem like I hated God, and I should take it out. In the end I took it out because it just didn’t fit with the rest of the piece. I posted it on e-anthology, and once again got useful feedback. Claire and Mike both thought that the part about my mom’s surgery took away from the rest of the story, so I took that part out too. Mike also said that he liked the ending, but he thought that I needed to add a little more to help set up the ending. He gave me a couple of examples. Conclusions are always the most difficult part for me, so his advice and examples were really helpful. I added in the following lines just before the end:

But it wasn’t until my sophomore year that I found my true passion, one that would lead me on a journey of self discovery, like a mirror to Narcissus, allowing me to be center stage. All I had to do was write the play.

The last piece of my portfolio, and the first piece that I wrote in my blog, “The Nutshell in a Crazy,” was in response to my recent exposure to commentary during the Katy Wood Ray conference. I had never written commentary before. It turns out that commentary goes quite well with my sarcastic and opinionated nature. I was also in the middle of reading Bird by Bird, by Anne Lamott, one of my favorite writers. In the book Anne says that sometimes she’ll call up her wittiest friend and discuss whatever topic she is writing about, and then she pulls from what they say and uses it in her writing. Now while this seems like cheating, I happen to have an incredibly witty friend, so I called her and read my blog entry to her. For the record, I did tell her that I was going to steal her material for my writing, after all, the book I was reading said to do so. As I was reading, she praised me for having gone online and created a blog and declared that I was now part of the Matrix….stole it. When I got to the part about my parents’ rotary phone, she empathetically said, “Laurie, you’re like Nell”…..stole it too. For some reason, when I went back in and added those parts it got me going again, and I ended up adding the part about my senior citizens’ discount at Wendy’s.

Part III
What I’ve Learned From Other Writers

Cathy’s short story “The Scream,” is one of my favorites. I like the way it starts out in the middle of a dream. It’s a great hook because the reader isn’t quite sure what is going on, but the dream comes back in the end. One of the best things about this story is how she slowly reveals what the husband is all about. The disgust builds as you read, beginning with bad breath, then taking the History of WWII book into the bathroom, on to nose picking, and finally the great reveal of his affair. By the time he dies, you’re right there with her, rooting her on, excited that her dream has come true.

Angela K’s “Flatulent Free” is another favorite. I like it first of all for its content…..which isn’t because I love to read about farting. It has the same appeal to me that Bridget Jones does. It’s all about something embarrassing that happens to all of us, and it just makes me feel better to hear about it happening to someone else. The story begins in an elevator, and seamlessly transitions into a childhood flashback. Angela also has great words like descent, potent, malicious, flatulence, accolade, expunged, and stench.

Robbin’s “Strangers in the Night” is another favorite. I like it because it’s short and simple and witty. The ending took me completely by surprise.

I admire Natalia’s boldness. She might write what I'm thinking, but would never say. Although hanging out with Natalia and reading her writing does not help me in my ongoing struggle to “submit,” it does make me want to drink and cuss, which is much more fun.

The History of Jackson McGee and Allison Dupree

Ol' Jackson McGee
bald and toothless
with a skinny willy,
a peg leg,
one steel eye,
a dog named Duke,
and a big ugly mama
with chicken legs
straight from the jailhouse
happy as can be
this is the history
of ugly Jackson McGee
and skinny Allison Dupree
with washboard ribs,
sugar lips
and seven white teeth,
killer legs
and gumbo hips
freshly squeezed into perfection
"What's your name?"
said Jackson McGee
to Allison Dupree
strong in spirit
she said, "Come bad boy,
discover the rhythm,
experience the award winning kiss
of Allison Dupree.
When I kiss your soul
your body will be free."
And that's the history
of Jackson and Allison McGee

Riveting Rubric Writing

Eight years ago I began teaching in an alternative school in a rural county in upstate South Carolina. Our school serves students from all over the county. They are referred to us for various reasons. Some students have failed a grade or two, sometimes three. I’ve had several students who stayed out all night huntin’, fishin’ and campin’, and then came to school with a pocket knife and got expelled. Others have emotional difficulties, many times a result of some great loss they have suffered, usually the death of a parent or sibling. A number of students are sent to our school for either having drugs at school or coming to school high. And usually one or two have been out on “maternity leave.” They range in abilities from slow learners to highly gifted, and many in between.
Although my students vary widely when it comes to interests, backgrounds and abilities, they usually have a few common traits. Most of them are highly unmotivated and have a history of truancy. No matter what the ability level, the result is that they all have gaps in their learning. This can be overwhelming, for both the teacher and the student, when it comes to their writing. I used to feel overwhelmed. I’d get a paper and I’d think, “Where do I begin? Legible hand writing? Capitalization rules? Past Participle? Organization? Content? Voice and style? Not only were these basic parts of writing lacking, but depending on where their gaps were, it varied from student to student. On top of all that, how was I supposed to encourage a kid whose paper seemed so hopeless that it caused me to consider early retirement in exchange for a career in shoe sales?
Then, a few years ago our curriculum coordinator gave every teacher in our school seven colorful posters, each representing one of the 6 + 1 traits of writing. I gladly hung the posters on a section of barren wall and in accordance with it, I dutifully displayed the crisp, unopened 6 + 1 Traits of Writing book on my desk, and that’s where it remained for about two years. It wasn’t until I was in graduate school that I actually paid any attention to the book or the posters…I had been far too busy trying to figure out how to get my students to write better to read another book. I was taking a class on assessment, and we learned how to make these riveting rubrics. I had used many and varied rubrics in the past, but they had always served more as a tool for me than for the students. I tried out this new type of rubric in my class (see Oral Presentation Rubric), and not only did my students love it, but they seemed to internalize it more, thus improving the quality of their presentations. The rubric solved my problem of addressing numerous and varied issues that my students have, while at the same time identifying and praising what they did well. It also gave students a clear picture (that they could understand) of what was good, mediocre and bad about each aspect of their presentation.

Oral Presentation Rubric

Eye Contact
5. I make good contact with everyone in the room.
• You can tell that I’m knowledgeable about my topic.
• I look at the audience, not the floor or the project.
• Making eye contact with everyone in the room helps to keep them interested.

3. Even though I make eye contact with the audience most of the time, I spend part of the time looking at the floor, my project/ props, or my best friend.
• I know a lot about this topic, but I’m a little nervous about my presentation.
• I try to look at everyone, but I also stare at my project/ props or the floor to avoid looking at the audience.
• Some audiences might get distracted or bored because of my lack of eye contact.

1. I just want to get this over with.
• I don’t know what I want to say, and I’m not looking at anyone.
• I’m staring at the floor, the ceiling, or anything to avoid looking at the audience.
• I can’t see the audience, but I can hear them snoring.

Voice Level
5 My voice level is appropriate.
• Not too loud, not too soft, my voice is just right.
• You don’t have to read my lips to figure out what I’m saying.
• The inflection in my voice keeps people interested.

3 Even though most people can hear me, at times my voice is too loud or too soft.
• I’m almost there, but when I get nervous my voice shakes.
• At times people have to read my lips to figure out what I’m saying.
• It’s pleasant and friendly enough, but I lost my audience at times.



1 My voice is too loud or too soft.
• I either scared the people in the back row, or the people in the front row had to crank up their hearing aids.
• I really tried not to cry.
• The audience is listening to their iPods.

Body Language
5 My body language is appropriate for my presentation.
• I faced the audience throughout my presentation.
• I used props to enhance my presentation, and used appropriate gestures.
• I led the audience through my presentation.

3 Even though my body language was appropriate most of the time, sometimes it was distracting.
• I had my back to the audience at times.
• Sometime I used too many gestures.
• I was fidgety part of the time, and this distracted the audience.

1 My body language took away from my presentation.
• I was cracking my knuckles and flapped my arms like a chicken.
• My back was to the audience the whole time.
• The audience thought I was demonstrating how to do the Macarena.


Appropriate Language
5 I used standard American English.
• There are very few grammatical errors when I speak.
• Any English teacher would be proud to hear me speak.
• Maybe someday I’ll be a newscaster.

3 Even though I used standard American English throughout most of my presentation, sometimes I slipped in a little slang.
• The grammar might be a little bit informal, but it would be OK for a classroom discussion.
• Even though it wasn’t all standard American English, everyone still understood what I was saying.
• I could be a radio DJ.

1 Didn’t nobody know what I wuz sayin’.
• Mrs. McCall started cryin’.
• Someone axed me if English wuz my first language.
• I’m sure I have other strengths.


Fluency
5 I was completely confident and fluent as I spoke.
• I transitioned smoothly from one topic to another.
• My anecdotes were short, simple and too the point.
• My audience was captivated.

3 Even though I was mostly fluent, I was nervous at times and had to use some fillers.
• I had trouble moving from one idea to another.
• I was a little long winded, or didn’t share enough information.
• I said UMMM a few times.

1 My speaking wasn’t fluent and I lacked confidence.
• I said UMMM so many times my audience thought they were at a NASCAR race.
• Some stories were like the Energizer bunny, and other stories got all tangled up with other stories that had no point or transition between those stories and it was real confusing.
• Listening to me was like listening to William Hung on American Idol.


Use of a visual aid to enhance presentation and extend meaning
5 I used my project to cue me to speak about my topic. The focus was on what I was saying.
• My project made my presentation even better by providing a visual aid for my audience and a cue for me.
• I used my project to prompt me to tell anecdotes that taught the class about my topic.
• There were clear connections between what I was saying and my project.

3 Even though I used my project as a cue, at times I focused more on the project/ props than on my speaking.
• Most of the time I used my project/ props to enhance my presentation, but at other times I just said one sentence about each picture.
• Sometimes I focused more on the project/ props than I did my topic.
• Sometimes there was not a clear connection between my props and what I had to say.

1. I was over dependent on my props and it took away from my presentation.
• I just slapped some stuff together and faked it.
• If this had been a race I would have won.
• What was I supposed to be doing?

Imagine a bulls eye, the center represents perfection, and then there’s a range between perfection and not even hitting the tree where the bulls eye is hanging. The rubric spoke to students in language they understood, in phrases that they were able to recall, telling them exactly where they were in regards to a target with each aspect of their presentation. The results were phenomenal. I wanted to make clever rubrics for everything. I started with writing.
I turned my attention to the 6 + 1 Traits of Writing posters and book, which after being neglected for two years were thrilled to just be acknowledged and ecstatic to be taken home and read. From there I created the Writing Rubric. The way it’s supposed to work, the teacher shows students samples of writing, and together the teacher and students practice rating the samples using the rubric. I spent last school year collecting student samples, and I intend to use them for this purpose in the upcoming year.

Writing Rubric

Word Choice
5
• My wording is original and interesting.
• I use strong verbs and specific nouns and adjectives.
• I could paint a picture with my words.
• The words and phrases I use might linger in your mind after you read them.

3
• I should probably consult a thesaurus.
• Some of my words are original, but others are ordinary.
• I could be more specific with my choice of words.
• You will remember parts of my writing.

1
• I need a thesaurus for my thesaurus.
• The words I chose were overused.
• I’ve read obituaries that were more interesting.

Content
5
• My topic is focused and makes sense.
• You’re not going to want to put this paper down until you’re done reading, even then you’re going to want to read it again.
• You’ve never read anything like this before.
• With all of the details, you will feel like you were there.

3
• I get a little off topic at times, but most of my details help to tell the story.
• You’ll enjoy reading this one time.
• I have some interesting details, but I need to go back and add more.
• I need to revise some parts of my paper to make them more original.

1
• My story was all over the place. I started talking about this, rambled on to that, and what was I talking about?
• This may sound familiar, like several stories that you’ve read before.
• If you run out of Tylenol PM, you can always read this paper.

Conventions
5
• My grammar is appropriate for my purpose and audience.
• My punctuation marks are all in places where they should be.
• I used a dictionary when I proofread my paper.
• My paper is ready for publishing.


3
• Oops I forgot to proofread my paper before I turned it in.
• A dictionary would help.
• I need to watch my capitalization.
• I slipped in a lil’ slang where it wasn’t appropriate.

1
• Spel chek cant even help none
• U cant tel were won thing ends and the next begens cause their aint no puntuashun
• What part a speech is grammar?

Organization
5
• My beginning and ending are like well crafted bookends.
• My introduction is engaging.
• My ideas flow smoothly from beginning to end with nice transitions along the way.
• The ending is satisfying and leaves the reader thinking.
• My paper is organized into paragraphs

3
• I need a little more bait on my hook.
• I wasn’t sure how to start off, but once I got going, I took off.
• I need to go back and add some transitions between my ideas.
• I was doing a great job, but I got tired of writing, so I stopped.
• Part of my paper is divided into paragraphs, but I still need to look at where shifts in my writing call for new paragraphs.


1
• If this had been a race I would have won.
• This story includes ideas from five different stories that just had to get out of my head and landed on my paper
• I was going to add an ending, but I
• What’s a paragraph?

Sentence Fluency/ Structure
5
• My paper has a variety of sentence structures.
• There is a rhythm to my writing that helps it to flow.
• This paper wants to be read aloud.
• All dialogue in my paper sounds real

3
• I need to vary my sentence structure more.
• Most of my writing flows, but there are a couple of places that seem choppy.
• My dialogue needs some work to make it sound natural.
• This paper could be read aloud.

1
• My sentence structure is always the same.
• Mrs. McCall has more rhythm than my paper.
• I could write dialogue for Saved by the Bell.
• You should make students in detention read my paper aloud

Voice/ Style/ Tone

5
• You would know I had written this paper even if I had forgotten to put my name on it.
• My writing is expressive and engaging.
• My writing is appropriate for the purpose and the audience.
• If my writing is a narrative, then it is honest and appealing.
• If my writing is expository or persuasive, then it has a strong sense of conviction and shows why the reader should care.

3
• If I had forgotten to put my name on my paper you might have guessed it was mine.
• I need to edit some parts of my paper to make it appropriate for my purpose and audience.
• If my writing is a narrative, then I need to think a little bit deeper before I write.
• If my writing is expository or persuasive, I need to be a little more passionate to convince you to care.

1
• If I had forgotten to put my name on my paper, you’ d have never guessed it was mine.
• Why did I have to write this? Who was going to read it?
• If my writing was a narrative, you wouldn’t have believed it.
• If my writing was expository or persuasive, it couldn’t have convinced a frog to hop.


The results of the rubric, once again were amazing. I used it consistently last school year and received, by far, the best writing that I have ever gotten. In 6 + 1 Traits of Writing (Culham, 2003), George Hillocks Jr. is quoted as saying, “Scales, criteria, and specific questions that students apply to their own or others’ writing also have a powerful effect on enhancing quality. Through using the criteria systematically, students appear to internalize them and bring them to bear in generating new material even when they do not have the criteria in front of them” (p. 19). Instead of dreading grading papers, I was excited to see what my students were writing about and how they writing about it. The rubric made it easy to chart my students’ growth and address individual issues that they were having with their writing. It also enabled us to break the task down together, focusing on improving one facet at time. As they became proficient in one area, we moved on to another. The following sample is from an 8th grade student named Joseph. His focus at this point in his writing was on the area of word choice. Although some of his words are not precise, it is clear to see that he was experimenting with language.

It was early morning, around 6:00 AM. I had slept well the pervious night. I arose from my soft bed. I opened the shady, dust covered blinds to my room. The sunrise had already begun. I glared at the dull sun. It was as red as an apple hanging in the sky. Even with the sun half- arisen over the trees, it made the dew on the grass show like an ocean of diamonds. I wearily trudged onto the kitchen floor. I was startled by the icy touch of the tiles parallel to my toes. I was not aware that my sister was already awake.

Although Joseph’s word choice was pretty good, his sentence structure was all the same, and the real content of the piece didn’t start until the middle of his essay. Once he had a little more practice with word choice, we began focusing on his sentence fluency and content. The following sample is a later piece of writing by the same student.

“What’s wrong with you?” I asked, trying to cover my new found news.
“I should ask you the same thing.” She said.
I replied with nothing but a stare. She looked exhausted. Her usual strait brown hair was now ragged and frizzy. She had bags under her eyes that couldn’t be covered with make-up. Her beautiful dark brown eyes were dull and glazed. “What’s wrong?” Her voice woke me up from my half-sleep.
“I have something to tell you.” I looked at her with that brother-to-sister-don’t-tell-mom-or-dad-look. “I recently learned that I have HIV.” A big explosion of sound-waves went through the seemingly still air. Her bags went away and her hair stood up.
“What?!?! How could you? You were supposed to wait for marriage.” I cowered as though she were going to hit me with a bat.
“I don’t know how I contracted it. It just happened.” She stormed out of the room without saying another word.


Joseph is a wonderful writer and an excellent student, but he was not the only one to benefit from using this rubric. As a whole, I saw more growth in my students’ writing this year than ever before. In addition to using the rubric, I also allowed my students to make changes to their writing for full credit. They are so trained to be focused on grades that I have found this to be a truly effective way of getting them to learn from their mistakes, thus growing as writers. “The purpose of revision is not to correct, but to discover” – Lucy McCormick Calkins (Culham, 2003, p. 24). I used the following grading scale to come up with a numerical grade from the rubric. Students received two grades for each piece of writing. The first grade came from the entire rubric. I found this to be important so that they could see for themselves where their writing was in relationship to the overall target. The second grade, however, came from the trait or traits that they were focusing on improving in that particular writing sample.


Writing Rubric Grading Scale

30-29 = A+ = 100

28-27 = A= 97

26-25 = A- = 94

24-23 = B+ = 92

22-21 = B = 89

20-19 = B- = 87

18-17 = C+ = 84

16-15 = C = 81

14-13 = C- = 79

12-11= D+ = 76

10-9 = D = 73

8-7 = D- = 70

6-0 = Re- do

“Assessment is not something that we tack onto learning; it is an essential ongoing component of instruction that guides the process of learning. Assessment is the horse that leads the cart of understanding” – Rebecca Simmons (Culham, 2003, p.11). In order for students to improve their writing, they have to know what it is they need to improve and how to improve it. “The journey to lifelong learning begins with a shared vision of success and a common vocabulary for how we talk about these critical issues” – Betsy Dyches (Culham, 2003, p.7). Creating a rubric that combines the vocabulary for writers with terms that students understand, not only gets their attention, but it also stays with them, improving the quality of their writing.

Source:

Culham, R (2003). 6 + 1 Traits of Writing. New York, NY: Scholastic Inc. .

Brother Love

Joey trudged slowly across the playground, kicking dirt as he went, refusing to make eye contact with me. He stopped about ten feet away, shoulders slumped, face dirty and scratched. It hardly looked unusual. I met him the rest of the way and wrapped my arms around him.

“How was your day?”

“I punched somebody.”

Anxiety flooded my mind as the memories of the year before, when Joey had been kicked out of pre-school, came rushing back.

“Why, Joey? Why?”

Tears ran down his face. “I don’t know.”

I paused and breathed deeply, taking time to think about my reaction. As soon as Gabe saw me he raced across the playground, jubilation bursting from his smile like an Orbit gum commercial.

“Mom, Joey beat a kid up today, and it was totally awesome!” Gabe jumped around, trying to act out the fight. “Mom, he punched him up the nose…..like this,” as he balled up his fist and pretended to hit his own nose in slow motion. I watched the reenactment of a punch that carried enough force to throw the kid’s head back and lay him out flat.

I turned my attention back to Joey. “Joey, why would you do that?”

“He was pickin’ on Gabe. I couldn’t let him talk to Gabe like that.”

Gabe took over telling the story.

“Mom, we were playing dodge ball, and Trevor got the ball and he was just holdin’ onto it, so I told him to throw it at somebody, and he told me I was puny and no one wanted to play with me, and he said he hated me.”

Joey looked up at me trying to gage what his fate would be. I bit the inside of my cheek trying to hide my smile as I opened the car door. Gabe hopped in, tossing his bookbag across the back seat, with all the energy in the world. Within two seconds he was buckled and ready to get on with the afternoon fun. Joey was still making his way towards the car, dragging his book bag across the cement sidewalk. He slung his backpack in the floor of the car, and then lifted one foot as slowly and deliberately as Neal Armstrong stepping onto the moon.

Before I could even crank up the car Gabe was already talking.

“Mom, you would not have believed it. And Trevor is a first grader….he totally should have been able to beat Joey up, but he didn’t even have a chance. And he’s way bigger than Joey.”

I adjusted my rearview mirror so that I could see my boys. Gabe’s voice faded away in my mind as I saw a slight grin begin to emerge across Joey’s face.

“Joey, why don’t you tell me what happened.”

The grin disappeared, and he hesitantly began talking, unsure of how much trouble he was in. His trepid response became more certain with each word.

“I was just walkin’ ‘round the play yard, and I heard him talkin’ ugly to Gabe. And I couldn’t let him say those mean things to my brother. So I went up to him and I called him a big booty head.”

Gabe watched Joey intently, hanging on his every word, just waiting for him to get to the good part. Joey’s voice got louder, and his words came quicker. They both began shifting in their seats as they mimicked what happened next.

“First, he kicked me in the arm, and it hurt a little, but I didn’t cry. I just rolled to the left, and then I rolled to the right, and then I did a cartwheel, and I stood up, and he wasn’t ready to punch, but I was, and PA-POW! Right in his nose!”

“Mom, you should have seen it….it was so awesome!”

“Feel my muscle!” Joey roared.

Gabe stared at his little brother like he could bend metal and rip phone books in half with his bare hands. Joey didn’t care about the consequences any longer. It was all worth it to gain the admiration of his older brother.

A Dog's Thoughts on Freedom

free-dom n. 1. The condition or state of being free: As in no choker collar, no runner or chain, no root to get caught on or tree to get wrapped around, no food or water bowl just out of reach, able to run, chase cars and cows, able to lie in the sun soaked grass of the front yard just waiting to terrorize a bicyclist, able to pee on the flowers that belong to the bitch next door 2. The power to act or think or speak without externally imposed constraints: As in since I’m not tied up I don’t have to think about how to get out of this collar or spend my day trying to uproot the giant privet to which I am normally bound; I am free to wander, free to lie around, free to eat and drink and roll in dead things- free to think about where my balls have gone, free to anticipate the moment that my boys get home from school, free to think about squeaky toys and all the bones I have stashed throughout the yard; No muzzle- not that I even know what one is, no glaring eye of an owner telling me to shush, free to growl, free to howl, free to bark, free to fart, free to snore 3. The right to use or occupy a place and treat it as your own: As in ruling over the yard- the penalty for trespassing is one’s right leg, unless you know the password, really, one shouldn’t even drive too slowly past the house, as I have created a dog right of way and declared a minimum 45 MPH speed limit- slow drivers will have to outrun me for a quarter of a mile 4. The right to enjoy the privileges of membership or citizenship: As in free to sleep in my boy’s bed, free to sit at the head of the table awaiting falling crumbs, or the sneaky hand of one of my boys generously passing off food in an attempt to clean his plate, free to stretch out by the fire on my memory foam bed which adjusts its temperature to make me as comfortable as possible 5. Overconfidence, overfamiliarty, or a lack of proper restraint or decorum: As in my owner has to take me in and out of the back door at the vet as to avoid confrontation, some consider it “overfamiliar,” but I think you can never smell a person or animal too much

Discovering Greatness

From the time I was very young I had this sense that someday I would be famous. It all began in the womb, when my mom claimed to see Jesus in the ultrasound picture. His face emerging from a cloud, His head adorned with a crown of thorns, shining a light down on His chosen child. All of her dreams of greatness for me were confirmed upon the doctor’s inspection of the placenta, which revealed a fibrous ring that surrounded the umbilical cord, appearing much like a halo, sealing my fate of chosavinity. I would be their favorite. Clearly God had blessed me with being the center of the universe, a secret that only my immediate family was privy to. My mom told me that I could do anything I put my mind to. I could be anything I wanted to be....”except a man or a father,” that’s what other children from more “restrictive” homes might have told me. No, no, I could be a man if I really wanted to, but why would I do that? After all, I can do anything a man can do, and many things even better- a belief I still hold strongly. Besides, I never wanted to be a man, and being a transsexual was not the type of fame that I was seeking. I was destined for greatness, and it was my responsibility to the world to discover what my great talent was. I just knew there was this hidden talent, and all I’d have to do is walk out onto the right stage or field and it would happen.

It began at the age of four. I watched my older sister, Ann, do cartwheels, backbends, front hand springs, and best of all splits. It must be in the genes. Sign me up. My mom was supportive of most every sport I ever tried, but she did not find paying $30 for me to sit on a matt sucking my thumb, waiting on the magic to happen, especially endearing. So my gymnastic funds were cut short and I was left with a half a set of parallel bars in the back yard. It was the rusty metal swing set, and about the only thing it was parallel to was the ground. Ann taught me to do a frontward flip on it, but before I could convince my mom to call Bela I had a broken wrist, and I was over the whole gymnastics thing.

When I was just six years old, in the first grade, it came to me like a message from God, over the loud speaker at school. Someone from the Department of Recreation would have a table set up in the lunch room with applications for baseball. That was it. It had to be my calling. Tomorrow could not come fast enough. One might have thought they were serving manna from heaven the way I ran to that lunchroom. Mrs. Seegars, the meanest first grade teacher in the world, declared that anyone who wanted to go get an application for baseball would have to clean his or her plate first. And it was not a pizza day. It was raisin- carrot salad day. Finely shredded carrots mixed with mayonnaise (which I think is the most disgusting condiment ever) and bloated raisins. I ate every bit of it, carried my tray up to the dirty tray window, and proudly strutted my way to my destiny at the table in the back of the lunch room.

“I would like to play baseball.”

“You’re a girl. You’ll have to play softball, and I don’t have any softball applications. You’ll have to get your mom to bring you down to the Rec. Center and sign you up.”

“I don’t want to play softball. I want to play baseball.”

“I’m sorry, but girls aren’t allowed to play baseball.”

When I get really mad I cry, but I hate to cry, so I bit my lip ‘til it almost bled. I wanted to say “Listen buddy, I just ate a pound of raisin-carrot salad. The least you could have done was put a stupid sign on your table saying ‘No girls allowed.’” But that was not the end of it. I was playing baseball. And when I went home and told my mom what that man said to me….OK she didn’t actually do anything, but my brother overheard me and he said, “Here, just take my application, and I’ll tell him I lost mine tomorrow.” We filled it out, and he turned both of them in so the oaf wouldn’t notice that a girl had slipped past the system. I suppose it got stuck in a stack with dozens of others, and we got a schedule in the mail. Not only was I the only girl on the team, I was the only girl in the league. And I take full pride in how well manicured I kept left field, where I often sat picking dandelions until it was our turn to bat.

I started taking dance at seven- tapp and jazz, I figured I could double my chances of discovering my God given talent. Honestly, I don’t know whether or not I was actually any good. I know I thought I was, but I also thought my mullet was cute, and I lived for the recital and a chance to wear lots of blue eye shadow. Looking at the pictures would lead me to believe that getting out of dance was probably a good decision. After all, I had given it a good solid two years, and I was not going to waste my years of stardom being mediocre.

My brother, Jesse, on the other hand, wasted no time finding his fame. He was the star of the tennis team, running a racket stringing business out of his bedroom. I swear I think I wasted the next two to three years living in his shadow as we toured the state going from tournament to tournament. After a few years of hearing me whine my mom put me in private tennis lessons. I was going to be just like my brother…only not. I don’t know what happened. I think if I had actually been considering becoming a man this would have been a good transitional sport…cute short skirts with a place to hide your balls, but that was not part of my plan, and it was really hot outside, so things just didn’t work out.

At age 13 I decided to revisit dance. After all, I had finally hit puberty and was ready to proudly display my femininity in the smallest, tightest outfit possible. If I could have chosen my God given talent, it would definitely be to have been a dancer. Besides, I was only a kid the last time I took dance. Now I was ready to shake my tail feather. I soon discovered, that now that I had my womanhood, I’d either have to use a tampon or quit dance because wearing a pad with a leotard just wasn’t going to cut it. And just as I was getting used to the tampons, we moved.

I can definitely tell you what my God given talent is NOT, and that is geography. I knew when I started 9th grade that we would be moving sometime that year, and for some reason I decided I did not like my geography teacher. I was proof of the statement that “Students don’t learn from teachers that they don’t like.” I determined after the first day, in all of my 14 year old wisdom, that I’d rather be geographically retarded for the rest of my life than to so much as write my name at the top of my paper for that man. And I maintained straight A’s in every other subject. We moved third nine weeks, and I was truly horrified when I found out that my grades transferred to my new school. Having never moved before, I just thought I got to start over. All of those A’s had actually been purely to show my parents and my geography teacher that clearly there was something wrong with that man. The day my grades came, my new geography teacher found me in the hall. He came to me like an angel of mercy, his words renewing my faith that God had not forgotten me.

“Laurie, I see your grades came today. You’re failing geography.”

“Yes sir, I know. The guidance counselor already told me.”

“Have you ever run track before?”

It was the first time anyone had asked me if I was a runner, but I knew why he was asking. It was the same reason that people asked me if I played basketball. I was 5’7” and weighed 104 lbs.

“No, I haven’t, but I bet I could.”

“I’m the track coach. I’ll tell you what. If you’ll run track for me I will help your grade.”

For a half a day I had thought that bastard of a geography teacher was going to win. Just when I thought God had completely forgotten me, not only had I been rescued from having to bring home a failing report card, but it appeared, at the time, to be God’s unveiling of my great and hidden talent, just when I least expected it. It was going to be great. I showed up at the track decked out in my shorts, tank top and Keds. I was ready to run. I worked hard to get into shape, traveling with the track team, waiting for my great debut. It came during a home track meet. Everyone was there. Everyone was there to see Brantly Epps, an 8th grader with legs up to her chin, lap me on the mile. That’s it. I was done.

The summer after 9th grade my mom tried to convince me that it was my destiny to be a great marksman. She had devoted the entire spring season to taming a fox. Every night she would set out a pan of table scraps in the garden, and force us to sit by the window in silence for what seemed like hours until the fox came. And I must admit, it was pretty cool. Something always came. If it wasn’t the fox it was a opossum or a raccoon, but the fox was the best, that is until it began coming in the garden in the middle of the day. One minute my mom would be in the heart of the zinnias, plucking weeds. And the next minute she’d be running through the yard screaming like a mad woman.

“That fox. It’s rabid. I just know it. They’re nocturnal animals. It shouldn’t even be out during the day.”

“Mom, you tamed it. I’m sure it’s just lookin’ for food.”

“Didn’t you see on the news where that woman got bit on the ankle by a rabid fox that was hidin’ under her back deck? I’ve got to do something.”

She tried for several weeks after that to kill it. My dad went out and bought a Gamo 1000 pellet rifle with a scope on it. Being a witness to this series of events was like a daily matinee to Caddy Shack. My mom was Bill Murray, and the fox, the gopher. Each day she became more and more obsessed with putting an end to her foe, eventually dragging me into her plot. I was to hide out on the deck, armed and ready while she plucked ripe cucumbers and tomatoes. I would be a perfect marksman. She just knew it. I’d sit on the deck for an hour or so every day while she gardened. I took it as an opportunity to darken my tan. I became a crazed bikini wearin’, gun totin’ fox killin’ machine. The fox would come. My mom would scream, and I’d jump up, wave the gun around wildly, shoot in the air a few times, and the fox would run away. We musta’ looked crazier than a rabid fox because after several days of this the fox never came back.

I found church basketball to be a great outlet for the resentment and hostility I had built up over apparently not having any “real” talent after all. I was no longer a child who believed that I had some special quality that just needed discovering. My sister had managed to debunk the whole chosavinity myth by becoming a labor and delivery nurse and discovering that a fibrous ring was not in fact a halo, but rather a thick ring of fiber, which can sometimes restrict blood flow to the uterus and cause mental retardation. I wasn’t the center of the universe. I was just a girl who liked to play sports that I wasn’t especially good at. Lots of girls in our school played church basketball, and I took great pleasure in landing an elbow to the face every opportunity I got. I was number one in rebounds because after the first quarter no one would come near me if I was under the basket.

In spite of my love for sports, I hated school and rarely ever went. I could maintain As and Bs every nine weeks while cutting classes two to three times a week. The school called our house relentlessly, but no one could convince me of the necessity of attendance. My parents decided that I needed to be in a smaller setting where it would be more difficult for me to sneak away, so they enrolled me in a small private Christian school across town. I agreed to it because I had always wanted to be a cheerleader, only I was about as flexible as a dried up twig and about as strong as one too, but I figured everybody probably makes the team at a Christian school. I was right about one thing, anyone can make the team, but I was already enrolled when I learned that the cheerleading uniform included skirts that went past their knees. Now there just wouldn’t even be a point to that. I skipped cheerleading “tryouts” and went straight to softball. I actually found that I wasn’t too bad at softball. I played first base and batted fourth. Our team as a whole wasn’t bad, if only we had had a pitcher. In two years we never found a single girl who coulda’ pitched a rock into a pond. The last game of my senior year we traveled to Greenville to play a double header against another Christian school. It was the bottom of the third. My team was in the field, and I was on first. The pitcher walked the first player, the second, and then the third. The bases were loaded, and I sighed as the fourth player leisurely walked to first. I gritted my teeth and rolled my eyes. She dusted off her hands and chuckled as she looked at me and said, “That was easy.” Without giving it a second’s hesitation, I stood up straight and glared at her and said, “That’s what I hear about you.” The next three minutes would be the most uncomfortable three minutes of my life as I truly expected her to beat me up, but thankfully I think she got walked to second before she figured out what I had said. We won the second game of the double header, the only winning game in two years, and then my high school softball career was over.

I went on to college, not on a sports scholarship or anything, just on full tuition. I worked hard, went to class, took notes and studied. It had become clear that getting through life was going to take hard work and perseverance. I was smart and well rounded. Having such a wide variety of experiences helped me to relate to most anyone. And I would go on to learn new things. I walked on to the girl’s club soccer team, played intramural ultimate Frisbee, and spent a summer rock climbing from Georgia to West Virginia. But it wasn’t until my sophomore year that I found my true passion, one that would lead me on a journey of self discovery, like a mirror to Narcissus, allowing me to be center stage. All I had to do was write the play. I got back an essay that I had written in English class, not one of any significance. I can’t even tell you what the essay was about, but there it was, at the top of the paper. It might as well have been written in golden calligraphy, “You have nice voice in your writing.” That’s it. I was hooked.

Making Carl Proud

“Lazarus, wake up.” A sweaty two and a half year old unglues himself from the seat of the double jogging stroller and begins following in Kadince’s footsteps across the granite mountainside. His face as round as a full moon, big soulful brown eyes, slight curls stuck to his face and neck, refreshed by the mile ride uphill, he takes off. “Lazarus, wait for me,” his mother calls. She looks my age. Her name is Ella. She has a newborn named Rumi attached to her chest, sometimes nursing, sometimes riding in the baby carrier, but always attached to her chest in one way or another.

She was my inspiration to make it up the mountain. Every time I wanted to turn around and head back I reminded myself that Ella, who just gave birth three months ago, was carrying one child and pushing another one uphill in a stroller, and at times pushing Kadince also. Together the three children weigh more than she does, yet she still manages to walk faster than me.

We all sit together at the top of the mountain. I try to think of Carl Sandburg. I listen to the breeze pass through the leaves on the trees, and feel it cool the sweat on my skin. And then FLICK FLICK goes some woman’s lighter, and PUFF PUFF as she sucks in the fresh nicotine and then with a great exhale releases the second hand smoke for all to enjoy. It makes me laugh and I wonder if Carl was a smoker. You never know, he may have hiked up that same trail only to get to the top and light one up.

Lazarus is running in and out of the little island of trees that somehow grows up out of the middle of the rock. He picks a leaf and carefully balances it on his hand. “See my butterfly,” only he can’t quite pronounce things correctly yet, so it comes out more like, “See me bufwy.” “Mommy, I got misquoto bite.” He’s got both little arms wrapped around his belly as though he were giving himself a big hug. He starts turning in circles as though if he turns around fast enough he might be able to catch the itchy spot which is clearly just out of reach.

Ella’s nursing Rumi again. She reaches over and scratches Lazarus’s back. “You wanna’ take your shirt off?”

“Yeah, tanks.” She helps him slip his T-shirt up over his head, and then with the greatest care she reaches out and removes a small red bug from his back.

“Lazarus, you had a tiny bug on you. You wanna’ see it?” Lazarus’s eyes sparkle like any two year old bug loving boy. He reaches his hand out as the bug, which by the way is the size of the head of a pin, crawls on his hand and then up and down his arm. He marvels at it. Kadince examines the leaves of the trees where he has been playing.

“Mommy, they’re all over the trees. They look like spiders.”

“They’re mites, Kadince.” My skin starts to itch and I think maybe I’ve had enough nature. Lazarus is still intently watching the tiny red bug crawling all over him.

“I tink I’ll put it on da twee.”

“That’s a good idea, Lazarus.” He reaches his hand out allowing the tiny red bug to join its friends on the leaves. And I think to myself, Carl would be proud.