"Who is rich? He that rejoices in his portion." - Benjamin Franklin

Not me. Sometimes I feel like I'm the only one who doesn't want a networth with 9 zeroes behind the first numeral, especially this week, with the lottery jackpot eclipsing 550 million dollars. People dreamed aloud this week about what they could gain from that much money even after the hefty tax bite Uncle Sam would give the jackpot. I considered more what I would lose: privacy, peace, the ability to live life on my own terms.

I never want to live my life hounded by press and paparazzi bullying me about how the public has the "right to know" how my life had changed since I won the big prize. I empathize all too well with Emily Dickenson, when she declares: "I'm nobody, who are you?" I don't want long-lost relatives coming out of the woodwork with tear-jerking stories of woe designed to empty my wallet into their hands.

On the other hand, I learned, about a decade ago, that public school teachers are public figures too, and that meant I did not have as much of a right to privacy as I would already prefer. Once, I was slandered, along with some other teachers, guidance counselors, and administrators, that he railed against in a website of his own creation. The rants were truly those of a thirteen year old, and actually, I was flattered to be villified in the company of colleagues whom I repected and admired. Our building rep for the union requested that we seek legal consul.

When the union lawyer explained to us our vulnerability in such a case, we chose to go no further. It did not matter that someone was publishing a rant, railing against the rigor of my class or the strictness of an administrator. I could live with that, but the idea that, as a public figure, the burden of proof in a civil suit was upon me to prove the statements false, shook me.

Even with the drama of being a teacher, and the tyranny of being shackled to education reforms implemented by politicians with minimal input from educators in the field, I  rejoice in my portion. There is love in my life, support from family, friends, and colleagues, and I come to work every day to students who are genuinely happy to see me and who are waiting to see what they can learn from me.

Luck

Responding to Langston Hughes' "Luck"

I have no use for
rabbits' feet,
lucky charms,
or
pots of gold.
How lucky was
that foot
for the rabbit, anyway?
Lucky charms
lost,
now found-- where's
the luck
in that?
You know who's lucky?
You are.
You woke up
this morning.
Whether you had
a bad day
or
a good day
you had a day.
Every year
every month
every day
hour
minute
we roam the earth
we are lucky.
We can be
someone else's luck
to live,
to love,

to battle this journey of life,

it's luck.

Today is the second day of our poetry unit. We read two Langston Hughes poems to exercise active reading strategies on troublesome texts.
Today, students talked back to the text. The strategy is called, Talking To the Text in reading apprenticeship but I called it marginalia way before someone told me what I had been doing was new. (You know you're getting old when some new PhD is touting something you have been doing for years as a "new strategy.") Anyway, I didn't just want students to mark up the text with their own metacognitive inquiry, I also wanted them to respond to the ideas of his poem.

We brainstormed what we individually thought luck was: symbols, animals, events and phrases and then we contemplated what Langston seemed to think luck was. I don't agree with Langston's stanza that:

To some people
Love is given,
To others
Only heaven
(Daybook 11)

I shared my dissent with my classes and, as they brainstormed, I composed my reaction to the idea that luck is merely scraps from the table of joy that we like the family dog wait mournfully to retrieve, hoping all along a bone of luck will be flung instead.

I sat here earlier today trying to think what to write about this week. It has been nearly seven days since my last post. Showing students by example how to brainstorm, free-associate, and letting them see how you compose is pretty powerful. I didn't have the whining of "I don't know what to write." or "This is hard." They took the challenge and did the best they could.

It doesn't take much to make a happy teacher.

Bring Your Own Device Day One

I refrained from titling today's post "We Survived BYOD Day One" largely because there was nothing to survive. The servers did not crash, kids did not "test the waters" beyond having to be told once to put away their devices during an assembly-- no grumbling, back-talking or rolled eyes... every student appeared to understand that they were being given a unique privilege. The global issues of this experiment seemed to be a success.

Locally, my classroom delivery of instruction with the inclusion of devices sharpened over the day. If you ran into me after first or second period class today, I would have seemed harried and hagard. I was completely out of my comfort zone. Fortunately, I have third period planning and that "down time" gave me an opportunity to revisit my lesson, and figure out why I was uncomfortable. I usually enjoy workshop mode but it felt disjointed and the flow was "off."

We were in the library, which meant that everyone had the opportunity to use technology, whether they BYOD or not. I set up students with online exercises and resources on three web sources and suggested a fourth. What was "off" about periods one and two were more my issue than the students. The students seemed to react to the whole situation as if it was just a normal day.

My delivery felt out of balance because I am used to using print sources: textbooks and worksheets. Normally. I could monitor the progress of students copying notes off the board, then direct them to their textbook, then direct them to a handout, then direct them to applying the print resource to a draft. With students on smartphones, laptops, and tablets, they were all over the map in terms of directions. I could not as easily guide students through their activities for the day.

My solution? I borrowed the librarian, Mrs. Herring's, whiteboard. I proceeded to write out everything we were doing for the day. When students arrived, I walked them through the twelve things they had to do for the day, showed them where to find the sites on the overhead screen and fielded questions before we begin. Then I let them go. Suddenly the chaos was managed chaos again, and I was able to relax and observe, assess, respond, and clarify. Maybe it won't be that hard to be a 21st Century teacher after all?

What did we do today? I posted my crazy word of the day, root word of the day, word of the day, and thought for today on my school web page. (http://www.sesdweb.net/Page/3841) Just like in class, students had to write these things in their notebooks. Those who had tablets and laptops of their own were encouraged to rip the information from my page and save it in an English 8 folder. I posted a list of homophones I did not want students to continue to confuse anymore on edmodo.com. Students opened the posting and saved it on their device, or they printed it out, their choice.

For formative assessment, students were asked to tell me: what a subject and a verb were, what the difference was between singular and plural was, and what compound meant on http://wallwisher.com/wall/byod11062012. I posted their grammar work directions on edmodo, and created a drop box for them to send their answers to me paperlessly on edmodo. We were talking about how to make subjects and verbs to agree with compound subjects.

Lastly, I posted writing pitfalls for students to avoid on their final drafts that are due on Thursday. When I relaxed, I saw what I had read in Dina Spangenberger's master thesis about teaching 21st century learners. They were relaxed and seemed to feel truly at home, for the first time. I asked a few how they felt about today's crazy class and their answers were a variation of the same theme: finally.

BYOD Day One. We didn't survive. We succeeded.

Halloween 1971

            To understand the depth of my embarrassment, you would have to know Geraldine.

            In 1971, I was four years old, my two brothers, my two sisters, my parents and I spent many a weekend evening gathered in the living room transfixed to the television, laughing full-heartedly to The Flip Wilson Show. Flip Wilson was a hugely successful African American comedian and the first with his own television variety show. If you have watched re-runs of The Carol Burnett Show or Saturday Night Live, you know what a variety show is--- a series of skits, special guest stars, and recurring characters in familiar skits. Flip Wilson became famous for his recurring character on the show: Geraldine, a sassy red-haired nurse who always tried to weasel out of her bad behavior with her catch phrase: “The Devil made me do it!”

            Remember when I said it was 1971? Back then, nurses wore uniforms: white shoes, white stockings, a military-looking cap, a white skirt and a short sleeved white blouse. So every weekend we watched this grown man transform himself into a mouthy, hair flipping, neck rolling nurse-with-attitude complete with white stockings and a raspy alto-toned big mouth. This was the year my sisters and my parents had a horrible Halloween idea with me as their victim.

            In 1971, they made me Geraldine.

            Halloween preparation did not consist of frantic trips to the store to buy the latest Teen Aged Mutant Ninja Turtle, or Power Rangers or Spiderman costumes. My mom would not buy those cheap plastic costumes with the hazardous masks you couldn’t really breathe in or see out of. Our costume preparation was a frenetic push through medicine cabinets, and each other's wardrobes to create something out of what we already had.

            From what I could tell, the 60’s were the decade of the wig. Mom had white Styrofoam faceless heads with hair in the top of her closet. Unluckily for me, there was a red one, just the right length to give it the “That Girl” flip. For some reason, there were white stockings still laying around from when my sisters were my age, and someone must have been a nurse for Halloween at some point because they found a uniform that fit for me too.

            To this day, I still wonder “Where were my brothers and my father?” When the Logan women were done, the third son and been transformed into the icon of family weekend laughter: Geraldine, in all his/her scratchy red wig, leg-strangled, greasy, make-up wearing glory.

            The worse part was there were pictures! Someone actually saved the visual for future laughs--- at my expense. I remember Halloween, Geraldine, Flip Wilson and the attack of the Logan women.