Today a wiki, tomorrow the world

They come in loud. A laughing, back-slapping, exclusive all-boys club.  21 hootin', hollerin' boys between the ages of 8 and 11, crashing into the computer lab like a wrecking ball in full swing.  There is no turning back now.

When I first thought of it back in June, I loved the idea of an all-boys club.  Take new collaborative technology, the opportunity to write creatively, and the shared camaraderie of boys becoming a cohesive pack, and see where it takes us.  That was the idea behind my after school club.

The reality was much scarier than the idea, however.  I hadn't actually meant to include 3rd grade, but didn't think to mention that when the forms went home.  I also never considered the fact that there would barely be enough computers for all the boys that wanted to join!  I assumed I'd have a nice, simple group of 10.  12, maybe.  21?  No way.  Third grade.  Did I mention that part?  I'm not sure what scared me more.  A huge group of boys that could easily become an unruly pack of kids that wanted nothing more than to play silly games online, or the fact that some of them were barely out of second grade. 

But there they were  on day one -- all 21 expectant faces asking about websites and online comic creators and blogging.  All eyeballing me with obvious concern.  Did they feel betrayed?  Had no one told them that the all-boys club was going to be led by (gasp) a girl??

How could a woman -- a teacher -- have anything cool to share with them about the Internet?

I probably eyed them with the same concern that day -- how was I going to manage twenty-one rowdy boys on computers at the same time, from three different grade levels?  What had I been thinking?  Why hadn't I planned this better?  Where were my parent helpers?

But I did what I always do when in doubt.  Forge ahead.  If there isn't a path, make one.  And that's what we have done.  Together.

Today was our third meeting.  Three one-hour meetings and the boys no longer look concerned.  In fact, they invite me into their jokes, grab my arm and pull me toward their computers to show me the newest treasure they have uncovered.  As of today, I officially feel like a part of the club.

Five of the boys are from my own classroom and already know how to do some of the things I introduce, so they get to be "experts" during this hour, helping me answer questions, fix problems, and run interference.  They are IT guys in the making.  It's brilliant, because I watch these kids that are typically the awkward, goofy guys in class become leaders.  For one hour a week, they take charge.  I'm eager to see how it changes our regular classroom environment.  I'm eager to see how it changes them.

Today I introduced our club wikispace, and they sank their teeth into it, quickly and repetitively erasing the home page I had created for them before finally figuring out the difference between editing the Home page and editing their own page.  It was a humorously frustrating experience.  Each time it happened we laughed, learned, and moved on.

One of my youngest members sat quietly working in front of his computer.  At the beginning of our meeting, I had asked him to pass out folders, to which he replied, "But I'm just a third grader!"

Now he sat, hunched toward the screen, clicking his way toward discovery.  I watched as he learned how to embed his glog we made a week ago onto his page, save it, and then share it with others.

"I thought you told me you were just a 3rd grader?" I said, grinning at him.

His giant smile was all I needed to see.  And that's a good thing, because a half-second later he was out of his chair and sprinting to a friend to teach them what he had learned.

I can't wait until next Monday.

Lighting the Way

This year my kids are proving to me, over and over again, if I raise the bar they will find a way to scale it. Naturally, this will be followed by a glance back at me with a, "That's all ya got?" smirk. Why not? When I challenge them, they challenge me right back.

Thomas Edison is quoted as saying, "If we all did the things we are really capable of doing, we would literally astound ourselves," and I agree completely. I consider it my responsibility to help my students find out what makes them tick, grasp at their passion, and run wildly towards their dreams. They deserve that from me. They deserve a life well lived. I want to help them find that life.

The problem in the classroom (for me, anyway) is finding the way to help all of my students turn their light on. How do we take an uninterested, seemingly unmotivated student and help him or her transform into a child full of wonder? I've spent years searching for that answer, and I assume I'll spend many more -- in truth, if I ever find a solid, concrete answer, I suppose I've lost a little of my own wonder. The minute I stop growing, reaching, searching, and navigating my own maze towards excellence is the exact instant my students have a right to tune me out. I am no longer valid if I am no longer passionate about my pursuits.

I love the delight in their eyes when I show them a new way to look at an old problem. I love the flicker of pride in their eyes when a boy who once hated reading now devours books with a ferocious hunger -- as if making up for lost time. I love when past students bring me books to read because they know I will still read them, and my heart literally jumps when a struggling writer finds words they never knew they had.

This year I am seeing this happen more than ever before. Kids are enjoying what they learn. They are helping one another succeed. They are eager to try new things.

So I have to ask myself ... why? I still teach the same grade in the same school with the same level of excitement that I always have. Why are my kids jumping forward and so eager to challenge themselves now?

A few things have changed -- I went to Summer Institute with the North Star of Texas Writing Project over the summer, I have given them so many technology resources they are giddy to try them all, and thanks to Donalyn Miller's The Book Whisperer, I completely revamped the way I teach reading.

But I think it's more than the sum of these things. I am more confident. I try new things and ask questions later. I step out on a limb and say, "May as well TRY to fly since I'm out here!" more often. I share more resources. I copy less and do more.

Confidence breeds confidence. My kids spend their day with a strong, energetic, confident, passionate teacher. I like a good challenge, and I certainly don't back down from some healthy competition -- and they know this. This year, my kids are in a classroom full of choice lead by a teacher whose confidence is finally growing.

I think we're going to be good for each other, this group of 21 strong-willed geniuses and me.

Challenge #1: Learn how to use Glogster and share your favorite book:

How do you think they did?

Sharing Matters

Yesterday we partnered with a first grade class to learn about descriptive writing. They had all drawn crazy monsters, and we used their drawings to find out how important it is to include details in our writing.

First, every student grabbed a partner and one of the monster pictures. One student described the monster while the other (without looking) tried to recreate the same monster drawing. Each partner got a turn drawing a monster from verbal descriptions only.

The results were actually pretty good, or in the very least, comical. And we all learned an important lesson about accurate details.

Next, each student took one of the drawings and wrote a description of their monster. These descriptions were going to another class to see if they could match up the correct monster with the written description. The kids were eager to see if they could write something detailed enough for a second grade student to match the drawing to the description.

Well, most of them were. Burt was a little hesitant to get started. He had done a fabulous job verbally describing his monster to his partner earlier, and I reminded him of that. He nodded, uncertain. He said very matter-of-factly, "I just don't know where to start."

We looked at the picture together and I asked him what feature stood out to him the most.

"Well, I guess there are about 5 million spikes on his head."

Progress! I told him to start there and just talk aloud like he was telling a friend.

I moved away, checking on some other students. Typically, I try to check in on him often, but this project required more time for other students as well. Before I knew it, time was up and I hadn't checked in on him again. I was upset with myself -- he rarely completes a task without frequent reminders to keep going.

Suddenly, he was at my side.

"You're not going to believe it," he said, holding his paper tightly to his chest.

He flipped the paper around, revealing a page full of writing.

But that wasn't it. The back page was full also. And the words were fabulous. Completely on his own, Burt had described his monster with vivid detail! I let out a whoop and gave him a big hug. I had to share his succes -- he had to share his success! We went to his previous teacher and shared. We went to the reading specialist and shared. We shared with our class. Kids cheered, teachers hugged, he floated a little bit off the ground for a brief while.

I love the happy moments. They make everything worth it.

Breakthrough Thursday

Little steps. Big victories.

Sometimes the steps feel so tiny I wonder if we're even moving forward. I wonder if I am challenging them enough. But I follow my gut, teaching becoming a strange mix between ESP and science, and eventually all these miniature steps pool together and produce an unbelievably satisfying reward.

One of my boys came to class as a self-professed bad reader. That's a pretty hefty title to have to lug around with you from 4th grade into adulthood, I thought, and so began my search for his Holy Grail of books. His family has a big attachment to superheroes, and much of his conversation in the early days of the school year focused on Superman and all his pals and enemies. Perfect. What do you give a boy that hates to read? Comic books, of course. He sank easily into a world filled with good versus evil, enjoying how quickly he could slip through a story.

After a few quick comics, I offered him a slightly larger graphic novel -- still filled with superheroes, of course. The other boys in class were fascinated that I was allowing him to read these books, and soon there were waiting lists for the books he was reading. He began to lift his head a little higher.

Next, more graphic novels. This time, he read things without the stereotypical superhero. By now, he was asking for time to read. In fact, just the other week he said to me with his crooked, dimpled grin, "I used to think I wasn't a good reader but now I think I like reading. I'm pretty good at it."

I couldn't suppress my excitement. I gave him a huge hug. I tried not to smile so widely as to frighten the poor boy. "You're right. You are definitely a good reader."

Last week I grabbed my copy of The Invention of Hugo Cabret by Brian Selznick. I boldy set it on the table beside him.

"Check this out," I said, "My son read this when he was about your age. I think you might really enjoy it. It's sort of like the graphic novels you've been reading."

He was hooked. The other kids couldn't believe he was reading such a thick book. Everyone wanted to know how many pages it had. He carried it everywhere with him. He begged me to let him read instead of doing math, his favorite subject.

Today, he took it with him to dismissal, finished the last few pages while waiting for his mom, and handed it to me as he walked to his car.

"I did it!" he yelled as he passed the book to me.

His transformation began slowly. For days I felt like a kid watching a chrysalis in hopes of catching the new creation as it emerged. I wasn't certain anything was actually going to happen. But when that spark finally did light? It was fast -- FLASH -- and off he went, a reader.

Still Searching

Thursday. Most of the class is finishing up their "memory basket" writing. Five memories, five items from home attached to those memories, at least one paragraph for each memory, describing it and why the object is important.

In theory, this was a fabulous idea. In practice, it felt forced. Why did I decide on the 'one paragraph per memory' expectation? Why have any expectation beyond, "write about your memories." I wonder what their writing would have looked like. I might have seen poems, comics, narratives, any number of unique recollections could have surfaced.

But no, the organizer in me came forward. The worrier. The controller. "I must prepare them for TAKS. We must write a paragraph. Our thoughts must be coherent." And so, from their individual, personal memories we have 21 very similar sets of paragraphs.

The happy medium. I am still searching for it.

Because we do need to learn about paragraphs and organization and figurative language. If I don't ask them to show what they know, how can I say I am teaching them? The struggle between state standards and organic writing is water against stone.

Maybe I could have let them write about each memory in a different way, as long as one of their memories was shared in the form of a paragraph. Practice alongside creativity. This might be one answer.

The only thing I know for certain is, regardless of how long it takes, I'll keep searching. I'm sure the happy medium is out there somewhere.

The Happy Medium

This year our principal set forth an expectation that every class will publish a piece of writing at the end of each nine week grading period for the purpose of a vertically aligned assessment. This actually fits fairly well with an idea I've been toying around with for a school-wide publication featuring student and teacher created artwork and written pieces. My original plan was a bit larger than life (as all my plans tend to be), requiring parent volunteers, editing committees, and community sponsorship to pay for a professional grade publication.

Yes, I dream big.

But with this new writing requirement, I can actually pilot my idea quite easily. I suggested to my principal that since we will all have a prompt to respond to each nine weeks -- why not make it something all grades could associate with? It might be interesting to see how a Kindergartener and a Fifth Grade student approach the same topic.

I've asked that all teachers give me a piece of writing from their class, and that each grade level choose a teacher to offer a piece for the publication as well. It's a little more formulaic than I'd originally hoped for, but a good place to start.

When I offered this idea to my principal and a few other teachers, a suggestion was made to use character traits as the prompts. Kindergarten might write about accountability, Third Grade tackling Effort, and Fifth Grade could respond to Respect. Something like that.

I believe it's of great value to teach children about character. Children need healthy role models and honest, understandable examples of what it means to have good character. My kids write about character traits and Angela Maiers' Habitudes daily. These are important discussions embedded into our daily routine.

But I don't believe that, at the beginning of the year, you can ask a student to write about what integrity means to them and expect an authentic, substantial piece of writing in return. I'm not entirely happy about having them write to a prompt at all, but if given a prompt, I want something that they can easily identify with.

I wonder though -- am I not giving them a chance? Have I decided too early what they can and cannot do, without offering them an opportunity to shine? I just know that I want them to write about things that are meaningful to them, and I have great difficult seeing Kindergarten and First Grade excited to share about respect through their writing.

This is a yearly struggle for me. Writing for the test vs. writing in the real world. We all have standards to meet, objectives to address, but don't we also have an obligation to protect the heart of a child? To nurture their gifts by allowing them to bloom in the conditions for which they are best suited? We have entire maps and books dedicated to the care and raising of plants, based on their individual needs - from optimum planting seasons to detailed sunlight instructions. Shouldn't our kids have the same opportunity to grow as the individuals they were born to be?

Ode to Sticky Notes

This week I read Wilfrid Gordon McDonald Partridge by Mem Fox to my class.  My first experience with this book was in Summer Institute with NWP this year, and I've been excited to share it with my students.
After reading the book, we talked about the different kinds of memories that Wilfrid shared with Miss Nancy and brainstormed our own similar memories.  We've been working on writing a paragraph about each memory and on Friday we'll each bring in our own memory basket to share with the class.

I had no idea what a profound effect this experience would have on my kids!  Although I focused on sharing my warm memory and my memory that is more precious than gold, my kids wanted to share their memories that make them cry.  And they did.  Cry, that is.  I felt a little like a group therapist.  The impressive thing about it was how supportive they were of each other.  They shared connections they had to each others memories, offered encouragement, and generally showed real compassion.  It was an incredibly powerful moment.

Today, a couple of my boys were struggling to come up with memories.  One said woefully, "I have no memories."  I whipped out my handy dandy sticky note pad.  I handed a stack of stickies to the more self-reliant boy and told him to just start thinking of big events in his life and putting one on each sticky note.  "Don't worry about what memory category from the story it fits in," I said, "just make as many as you can."  He immediately set to work.

If you haven't guessed by now, the other boy was Burt.  For him, I put the stack of sticky notes in front of me, grabbed a pencil, and started brainstorming with him.  Another boy was sitting nearby and offered to help.  He started rattling off fun things he had done, and memories he had already written down, and got Burt thinking.  As Burt talked, I wrote down what he said and slapped sticky notes into his journal.  In about 10 minutes, he had two pages full of notes.

"All right," I said, "now it's time to choose something you'd like to write about."

His eyes widened.  He pushed his glasses onto his forehead and pushed his hands into his eyes.

"I really don't know what to write about."

A quote from our reading in The Little Prince floated through my mind: It is such a secret place, the land of tears.

"Okay.  Let's look at the ones you had a lot to say about."

We narrowed it down to two choices.  A time someone stole his stuff at the beach, and the time he rode a roller coaster.  He decided on the beach.  But again, he just stared at the sticky note and at me, and repeated, "I really don't know what to write about."

I showed him how much he had already shared with me, and recounted the details he had told me earlier.

More staring.

I grabbed more sticky notes and put them in front of him.

"Okay Burt.  No writing for now.  I want you to close your eyes for a minute and run this story through your mind like a movie.  Then you're going to draw each scene on a sticky.  We'll add words later."

Like magic, he set to work.  10 minutes later, he had several stick figure drawings of his day on the beach.  By then, it was time to put our journals away.  The sad look was gone, and tomorrow we'll add words to his drawings.  From there, we'll move to paper and add detail.

Baby steps.  We'll get there in baby steps.  Writing is a nearly undefinable process.  What works for one person is completely foreign to another.  But I believe we all have a process that works.  We all have a writer within.  We just have to find it.

I hope I can help Burt find his.