Not long after my jubilation at Burt's writing success, we hit another major roadblock. It shouldn't be surprising, I suppose, that this roadblock came in the form of a TAKS style writing prompt. I could kick myself when looking back. The problem, however, is that I have to get all these kids prepared to perform well on the test, but in my heart I just want to help them find a way to write that is true to who they are. This is the great balance of the writing teacher.
This week I asked my class to revisit our writing benchmark. The prompt was "write about a time something surprising happened" but unfortunately, Burt doesn't feel that anything surprising has actually happened to him. After much brainstorming, he decided to write about the time his dad surprised him with two hamsters. When he went to write he couldn't find anything to say. His story basically consisted of: I got two hamsters. I put them in their cage. I watched them play.
I have actually not seen Burt get excited about anything, other than the day he proudly finished his "My Name" poem. He doesn't share much in class, he is a pretty quiet guy, and the things that many of my other students typically get excited about barely seem to register on his happy-meter. So the fact that recalling the addition of two fuzzy squeaking balls of fluff didn't light him up wasn't a huge shock.
We sat together wrestling verbally over what might be interesting to include in his story. When I asked him to tell me about getting the hamsters, he put his head in his hands and sighed, "I don't know." I tried to get him engaged in a conversation:
Me: Tell me about your hamsters.
Burt: I don't have them anymore.
Me: What did you think when you saw them?
Burt: I don't know. I didn't really think anything.
Me: What did you do?
Burt: Nothing, really.
You get the picture. Now, I love this dude. I just can't figure out how to get into his head. When we talk, it's really just me talking to him. I haven't found what really gets him energized yet. It's painful not to be able to connect to him on the level I would really like. I know I'm missing something. I have got to figure it out.
I left Burt to check in with some other students, but within minutes he was standing silently behind me, papers in hand, tears on his cheeks.
We sat down on the floor and I asked him what was going on.
"I'm just not good at this. I don't know what to say."
I asked him what he wanted to say, which was about the dumbest thing I could have asked. If he knew what he wanted to say he wouldn't be in tears! His hunched over shoulders and continued tears smacked me right in the forehead. I tried a new tactic.
"It seems like writing about your hamsters isn't much fun for you." (Duh, what tipped you off, lady?)
I asked him if he was sure that this was a story he wanted to keep writing, explaining that sometimes we try out a story and realize we just don't have as much to say about it as we thought. He agreed that he felt like it wasn't something he was excited to write about but then just stared at me, which left me feeling horrible because I honestly wasn't sure what to offer him next. So I asked him if he could start over completely, what else he might enjoy writing about. He gave me the answer I have come to expect: "I really don't know."
By this time, we needed to end writing time and move on to something else. I closed his journal and told him that we would put his story away for now and next time we could talk about other things he might be interested in writing.
But I felt like I failed him. And I wonder if I made him feel like he failed, by telling him he didn't have to write about the hamsters. To me, if the writing feels like passing a kidney stone, then it might be wise to put it away and try something else. I can't give him the words to write his story, but I need to be able to help him find the words.
How do you help someone find their words when they seem to have so few words to say?
No comments:
Post a Comment