What is curiosity? How have you experienced curiosity in your life? Did you find an answer? How?
-Monday's journal prompt
I can tell that they are done writing because they start talking. Fifth period, the chaotic fifty minutes directly after lunch, is classic for this kind of behavior. I've written the two sentences to keep Ms. D happy, and now I'll talk for another four minutes while she scowls at me from that little stool at the front of the room. All of my classes do this, and honestly it's part of my job to be aware of their pace. If they've finished writing, sometimes it is because they're being lazy, and sometimes it's because I haven't given them much room to respond. In this case, I suspect the latter.
"OK. Clearly we're done writing. Now, I want to talk about this one." Not every journal entry merits a conversation, but this one is the introduction to the Ninth Grade Research Project, which will haunt their waking hours in the next month, so I feel it's necessary to pause for a moment on the deep importance of curiosity in the research process.
"So... what IS curiosity?" I ask, writing the word on the overhead.
I hear the answers, popping like battle gunshots, around the room. It's wondering. Being nosy. You know, when you want to find out. Everyone is talking at once--what madness. I wait for them to realize I'm writing down none of their many-voiced gibberish.
"Thanks for raising your hand," I point and call a student's name. " What is it?"
"It's... you know, when you want to know more about something, and so you look for the answer."
"Excellent! Now, do we have more to add?" I point to another student.
"It's just trying to learn something. Trying to understand."
"Good," I nod. They're really getting somewhere, this brilliant class. "Now, what you need to understand is that curiosity drives learning. It makes you want to know. Remember when I told you the end of Othello?"
They groan as one; they remember. It was only a few weeks ago, actually, that we put down Othello after reading Act I and they all bemoaned the difficulty of the text, complaining at me for choosing it and at Shakespeare for "not writing like, you know, real."
"What happens in this book, anyway?" someone whined.
"I'm not telling you the ending."
The masses rebelled, wailing and moaning again about the book and declaring that it would be better if they knew now. They claimed it would make them care. I thought they might be right.
"Do you really want to know?" I asked.
Resounding cries in the affirmative.
"Even though it will spoil it?" I pressed.
Even if that was the case, they insisted.
"OK. Othello kills Desdemona."
Perhaps it was the shock of having a teacher actually give them something they wanted, but I have never heard the classroom so quiet. They stared back at me for a full ten seconds without responding. Then the questions had poured down on me. Why? How? What made him do it? Wait, this Othello? Kill his wife? They just got married! They're on their honeymoon in Cyprus! Impossible!
To their dismay, I wouldn't tell them anything else, nor did I give away any more plot details as we read the play. They were the only class of my five sections that knew the ending almost from the outset.
"Yeah," they answer now. "You told us the end. SO mean. Why'd you do that?"
"You asked me to," I shrug. "But really, as soon as you knew what happened, you were full of questions. Way more questions than any of the other classes. Didn't you want to know how they would get to the end? You didn't even believe me."
One boy, in the front row, is nodding. Others have a knowing look, and for a moment I am almost bursting with pride in them, these urban ninth graders, most of whom have stepped so far out onto the limb of imagination and language to conquer a terribly difficult work of Shakespeare. They understand this play, and even now they understand what I'm getting at.
"When we knew the end," the nodding boy said. "We wanted to know how to get there."
"Good. Perfect. You wanted to know. It's that wanting to know that is going to make you learn on this project. Hold onto that."
"Hey," someone asks. "Did you, like, mean to make us curious when you told us the end? Are you like a genius, or something?"
How tempting to pretend I'm omniscient! (They've already called me Superman today, because I saw a kid in the back row unfold his cell phone underneath his desk). I would love to claim that I knew the effect, beforehand, of their probable reaction to hearing the end of the play we were reading. Instead, I shake my head.
"You didn't? Then why did you tell us?"
"Because you were irritating me," I laugh. "Making you curious was an accident."
"Ha. It worked, though," the front-row supporter mused, looking oddly old and wise for a fifteen-year-old.
I smile. How often, these days, are my greatest successes mere accidents! Curious young teacher, I step around on the edges of my profession, waiting for the ice to crack and remind me of my limits, or for--miraculous serendipity--the footing to hold. In these providential, accidental moments, we chase learning with our desire to know, running in curiosity through far-away worlds unknown.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
On Generosity
The generous man will be prosperous,
And he who waters will himself be watered.
Proverbs 11:25
A few minutes before six this morning, I come to a halt in my cursory glance through the Proverbs, which has been starting my days in December. Outside, it is still completely dark and well below freezing, which my inky black windows remind me as I peer out, hoping for a hint of dawn as a reason, a hope, a promise that this night will not last forever. I look back at the proverb, feeling guilty that I was distracted by the earliness of the morning and the soft, pleasant comfort of bed. Once again, it seems so isolated and unearthly to be up at this hour. In self-centered agony, I feel I'm the only one awake in the world, that I must surely be suffering alone the tortures of darkest winter in the Northwest.
The generous man will be prosperous. I sigh and think dimly that the order seems off. I consider that the most generous people I can think of, whose names appear on the signs of libraries, theaters, symphony halls, and hospital wings, have been able to give out of the bountiful prosperity that they already enjoy. This, clearly, is not me. Anyway, I have a faint, early-morning suspicion that this generosity must have to do with more than finances, anyway. No loopholes for tired and young teachers, even if we don't have much money to give.
The sun has not yet risen when I arrive at school, tromping across the classroom in the heavy, warm and dusty darkness that reminds me of being far underground, close to the center of the earth. I plug in the Christmas lights that drape across the windows, and think the light is almost like candlelight. That makes me feel better about starting my work while it is still night. I pull up the eight window shades and stare out at the sky, which is just beginning to turn grey. The classroom is a magical, quiet place at this hour, a soothing place to wake up and wonder about the day.
Generosity. How will I be generous today? I know that I will not spend the day handing out cash or unearned good grades, even though my students would consider that very generous, indeed. The computer casts a blue glow over the classroom, spoiling the candlelight Christmas glow. I wonder what I can offer them, these funny, demanding people who will any minute storm in, asking for that missing assignment, or the answers to Friday's test, or what I did last weekend.
We are so tired these weeks at school. The calendar has tricked us, with an early Thanksgiving, into an extra week of school before Christmas, and students and teachers are ready for a break. Yesterday, Monday, the kids and I spent the day misunderstanding one another, a dreadful day full of mistakes and missteps, from which I came away feeling that none of us really heard anyone else, all day long. I am too tired, I complain to myself as I turn on the lights, too tired to be generous with myself. With my time, my energy, my attention. I don't have enough to be generous.
By lunch, the classroom has filled with students, all there for different reasons. Some come for the hot water, wanting to make their noodle meals. Some come to hang out with the noodlers. Some are doing homework quietly on the other side of the room. There are many today, though, who just want attention. Not bad attention, the kind that students get when they tag walls or throw tantrums in class. These are the kids who wander in from the halls to tell me stories about the cars they are fixing, the slopes they hope to ski this weekend, and the boys they like or wish they didn't like. Sometimes I feel flattered that they choose me, absent-minded young teacher, as their outlet, and more often I am ambivalent, nodding and correcting and occasionally replying. Today, I am too weary to be flattered or annoyed. I have no energy for grading or planning during lunch. I can only munch on a salami sandwich, sip cinnamon tea, and listen.
"Hey, Ms. D! Look who I found!" cries one boy, dragging another one into class behind him. "It's that one guy. The one we never see. Ever."
The sheepish absentee grimaces, perhaps waiting for a barrage of questions, and looks back at me. He's a great kid, if a little lost, who plays the viola and likes to read out loud. I have missed him in class in the last week, and am honestly glad to see him.
"Seriously," the first boy jokes, "What are you even doing here?"
"Hey, don't say that," I protest. "Welcome back. Seriously. I'm glad you're here. You're great."
The student shrugs, ninth-grade boy style, and slouches down into a corner with his friends. I wonder if he hears this enough, that he is valuable and interesting and fun to be around. I wonder if anyone hears that enough. Later, he crosses the room to silently offer me a stick of green gum. In the wordless gesture, a gift to his teacher, I hear the other half of the proverb: "And he who waters will himself be watered."
I think of the other ways my students have encouraged me already. Of the students who call out "Good morning!" as they pass my room on the way to their other classes. Of the ones who write thank-you notes and leave them in my mailbox. Of the girl who was excited to hear we were reading Othello aloud in class yesterday, saying, "Well, it's just so much better than the movie!" And I realize that any generosity I have shown to my students, those too-few moments I spend listening or encouraging, has made me quite prosperous, indeed.
And he who waters will himself be watered.
Proverbs 11:25
A few minutes before six this morning, I come to a halt in my cursory glance through the Proverbs, which has been starting my days in December. Outside, it is still completely dark and well below freezing, which my inky black windows remind me as I peer out, hoping for a hint of dawn as a reason, a hope, a promise that this night will not last forever. I look back at the proverb, feeling guilty that I was distracted by the earliness of the morning and the soft, pleasant comfort of bed. Once again, it seems so isolated and unearthly to be up at this hour. In self-centered agony, I feel I'm the only one awake in the world, that I must surely be suffering alone the tortures of darkest winter in the Northwest.
The generous man will be prosperous. I sigh and think dimly that the order seems off. I consider that the most generous people I can think of, whose names appear on the signs of libraries, theaters, symphony halls, and hospital wings, have been able to give out of the bountiful prosperity that they already enjoy. This, clearly, is not me. Anyway, I have a faint, early-morning suspicion that this generosity must have to do with more than finances, anyway. No loopholes for tired and young teachers, even if we don't have much money to give.
The sun has not yet risen when I arrive at school, tromping across the classroom in the heavy, warm and dusty darkness that reminds me of being far underground, close to the center of the earth. I plug in the Christmas lights that drape across the windows, and think the light is almost like candlelight. That makes me feel better about starting my work while it is still night. I pull up the eight window shades and stare out at the sky, which is just beginning to turn grey. The classroom is a magical, quiet place at this hour, a soothing place to wake up and wonder about the day.
Generosity. How will I be generous today? I know that I will not spend the day handing out cash or unearned good grades, even though my students would consider that very generous, indeed. The computer casts a blue glow over the classroom, spoiling the candlelight Christmas glow. I wonder what I can offer them, these funny, demanding people who will any minute storm in, asking for that missing assignment, or the answers to Friday's test, or what I did last weekend.
We are so tired these weeks at school. The calendar has tricked us, with an early Thanksgiving, into an extra week of school before Christmas, and students and teachers are ready for a break. Yesterday, Monday, the kids and I spent the day misunderstanding one another, a dreadful day full of mistakes and missteps, from which I came away feeling that none of us really heard anyone else, all day long. I am too tired, I complain to myself as I turn on the lights, too tired to be generous with myself. With my time, my energy, my attention. I don't have enough to be generous.
By lunch, the classroom has filled with students, all there for different reasons. Some come for the hot water, wanting to make their noodle meals. Some come to hang out with the noodlers. Some are doing homework quietly on the other side of the room. There are many today, though, who just want attention. Not bad attention, the kind that students get when they tag walls or throw tantrums in class. These are the kids who wander in from the halls to tell me stories about the cars they are fixing, the slopes they hope to ski this weekend, and the boys they like or wish they didn't like. Sometimes I feel flattered that they choose me, absent-minded young teacher, as their outlet, and more often I am ambivalent, nodding and correcting and occasionally replying. Today, I am too weary to be flattered or annoyed. I have no energy for grading or planning during lunch. I can only munch on a salami sandwich, sip cinnamon tea, and listen.
"Hey, Ms. D! Look who I found!" cries one boy, dragging another one into class behind him. "It's that one guy. The one we never see. Ever."
The sheepish absentee grimaces, perhaps waiting for a barrage of questions, and looks back at me. He's a great kid, if a little lost, who plays the viola and likes to read out loud. I have missed him in class in the last week, and am honestly glad to see him.
"Seriously," the first boy jokes, "What are you even doing here?"
"Hey, don't say that," I protest. "Welcome back. Seriously. I'm glad you're here. You're great."
The student shrugs, ninth-grade boy style, and slouches down into a corner with his friends. I wonder if he hears this enough, that he is valuable and interesting and fun to be around. I wonder if anyone hears that enough. Later, he crosses the room to silently offer me a stick of green gum. In the wordless gesture, a gift to his teacher, I hear the other half of the proverb: "And he who waters will himself be watered."
I think of the other ways my students have encouraged me already. Of the students who call out "Good morning!" as they pass my room on the way to their other classes. Of the ones who write thank-you notes and leave them in my mailbox. Of the girl who was excited to hear we were reading Othello aloud in class yesterday, saying, "Well, it's just so much better than the movie!" And I realize that any generosity I have shown to my students, those too-few moments I spend listening or encouraging, has made me quite prosperous, indeed.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Saturday Snow
It's snowing outside as I sit by an inky black window on Saturday night. Beside me is a brand-new Grand Fir Christmas tree, and indie carols play on the stereo. I've spent the day sewing and shopping for books and used furniture, and I will spend the evening watching a movie and decorating my house with friends.
I realized today that it is rather grown up to be able to enjoy snow on a Saturday. I mentioned to the Guests earlier this week that I hoped for snow on the weekend, and they scowled at me.
"On Saturday?" they moaned. "What's the use? We won't miss any school."
"No," I answered. "I guess not. But it's still snow, isn't it? Still wintry and quiet and nice to look at."
"Eh, whatever. It'd be better on Monday."
So I am feeling adult today, taking pleasure in snow that doesn't mean cancelled work, enjoying the pause always seems to accompany a Northwest snowfall, even on a weekend. I read the books I bought today. I make gifts and watch Christmas movies. I stay in on a Saturday night and do not feel like I'm missing anything. What a delight.
I realized today that it is rather grown up to be able to enjoy snow on a Saturday. I mentioned to the Guests earlier this week that I hoped for snow on the weekend, and they scowled at me.
"On Saturday?" they moaned. "What's the use? We won't miss any school."
"No," I answered. "I guess not. But it's still snow, isn't it? Still wintry and quiet and nice to look at."
"Eh, whatever. It'd be better on Monday."
So I am feeling adult today, taking pleasure in snow that doesn't mean cancelled work, enjoying the pause always seems to accompany a Northwest snowfall, even on a weekend. I read the books I bought today. I make gifts and watch Christmas movies. I stay in on a Saturday night and do not feel like I'm missing anything. What a delight.
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