It Was Addiction

When I started teaching at the local community college, I was completely caught off guard by the deluge of essays about alcohol and meth addiction/rehab/relapse. For years, most of the narrative papers from my school have been about this struggle, the loss that comes with it, the day-to-day recovery.

I'll tell you what, it's heartbreaking, reading these stories of parents offering their 13 year-olds methamphetamine, of kids being taken away/given back/taken away again. Homes are lost. Jobs are lost. Marriages dissolve.

But in many of these papers, there has been hope. These students have been to the bottom, and have found it isn't pretty, and they've learned that they can make things better for themselves. They can choose to stop using, they can join support groups. They can decide to live again.

Now, though, there's another problem. A different problem. A new one.

For the first time since I've been teaching, the big theme is unemployment.

Sadly, it does make sense.

Oregon's unemployment rate exceeds that of the national average, and in our county here, it's two whole percentage points higher.

My students write of being laid off, of looking (and looking and looking) for work, of being turned away for body piercings or heavy-lifting requirements.

They are losing their homes, their families, their self-worth.

In these stories, I'm not seeing the hope, the will, that comes with the addiction essays.

I'm seeing desperation. Devastation. Despair.

I would like to see this turn around. Of course, I would like to see the job market explode. But, realistically, I want to see my students be stronger, be more active, to take control.

I want them to clean themselves up and look admin. right in the eye. I want them to shake hands with a firm grip, leave behind sparkly applications.

I want them to learn a little from each rejection, to get more determined, more wise, more driven from it.

I want them to keep trying.

Blanca

Blanca sits on the bleachers
of her cholo's basketball game,
men's D-league.
Thursday night.
She sits
between two brown-eyed babies,
Blanca,
a baby herself.

Blanca,
toenails red,
black stilettos.
No ring on her finger.

She's the same as she was
in eighth grade English:
liquid eyeliner on her lids
full lips
long legs.

Blanca,
then,
talking and laughing during Anne Frank.
Getting referrals to the dean.
Getting detention.

Blanca,
then,
in short, swishy skirts.
Popping gum in the hallway:
"An' I tell him, if he gonna treat me that way, uh uh."

She's the same as she was,
only different, now, too.
The fire in her eyes,
gone,
even when her cholo dunks.

Blanca,
now,
in a too-tight pea coat,
tied hard around her.
Now,
with sippy cups,
with binkies and bills,
and after the two, with birth control.
Dios knows the cholo isn't worried about that.

Blanca,
checking outside the gym.
Where did they go, those babies?
Where did they disappear?
Blanca,
finding them again.

She sits in the bleachers,
center-left,
by the open door.
While her cholo drives the ball down,
right into the White Team,
fouls.

She sits.
Her babies,
talking,laughing, outside.
She sits,
checking her phone,
waiting.
She doesn't know for what.

Why I Love Grading Papers

Okay, there are lots of reasons to not love grading papers (it's tedious, time-consuming, frustrating, etc.).

And a lot of the time, I'd rather be doing other stuff (going on a walk, doing yoga, playing "10 Days in Europe" with my kids).

But there are some things about grading I really do love (beyond the obvious: the excuse to drink fancy coffee, and seeing my students improve).

I like that when I have papers to grade over a weekend, I pack in a bunch of other things around it(this weekend: hiking Mount Ashland, and taking my boys fishing, and having the kids' friends over, and going to breakfast with my good man).

I structure my time, when, usually, I'd be all over the place. Going nowhere. Getting nothing done.

Also, I get to practice what I'm teaching. I get to use the techniques I'm talking about in my own writing. I have to ask myself, Is all of this relevant? Is the story as tight and clean as humanly possible? Are my sentence beginnings different?

And, while I am firing up my neurons, so are my kids. They're doing their homework and playing guitar and building amazing things with Legos. Even The Husband will at least scan Sports Illustrated.

And, the biggest plus: I don't have to cook! I can sit on the sofa or at the table or in bed, and read incredible essays about other people's fascinating lives.

50 papers about "The Most Significant Time of Your Life"?

I'd take that any day over having to fry up a bunch of chicken.

Frozen in Time

So yesterday, my community college writing classroom was visited by the vice president.

I was nervous, I told my husband, because the lesson was a tricky one (the integration of implications), because it was the vice president coming, because even though I trusted my students completely, anything, anything could happen.

And it did.

The clock stopped.

Now, you might think there could be a worse distraction. And, there definitely could be.

I had practiced, I had prepped my incredible students. I had ironed, even got my hair cut.

But I had no idea how dependent I was on that cheeky little clock. Starting class, giving the 5-minute warm-up activity, stopping for a break, resuming, ending...there was no measure for any of it.

Technology -- basic technology -- had failed me.

Sure, the lesson went on. There were popcorn kernels and writing prompts. Reflection. Analysis. Evaluation. The students were their incredible selves: engaged, delightful, critical thinkers in full attendance.

Halfway through the hour(?), I stopped sweating it. If we started at 9:47 and ended at 9:47, if anything went super south, I convinced myself, I could pretend the whole class never happened.

Putting It In Writing

Dear Application Essay for National Endowment of the Humanities Fellowship,

You are one tough egg to crack.

I've obsessed over you for four months now: our coffee dates, our dinner dates. You control my dreams.

Why are you so hard?

I mean, I've written tons of essays. Tons. And yet, I don't know what to do with you.

You've got some serious standards.

Can I meet your expectations?

Should I stop overthinking and just embrace you?

What do you want from me?

Lovingly,

Jennie

Big Wow!

It's over, this first term of the year, and my students wrote the best research papers, got the best grades I've seen in my teaching career.

Part of this is because of a program my community college is piloting: high school graduates with a 3.5 or higher GPA will have 75% of their tuition paid the first year, 100% the second.

So, the valedictorian from South Medford High School was one of my students, adding to the diversity of a college with 25% Hispanic students, ESL and GED programs, workforce training, first-generation college attendees, drug and alcohol recoverees, ranchers, second-career seekers, two-year degree earners, four-year degree hopefuls, unemployed.

She and her fellow Rogue Ambassadors brought a confidence to the classroom. Lively discussion flowed freely and respectfully, papers were structured and clear, speeches were poised and purposeful.

The class is hard, and (from what I've heard), I'm a tougher teacher. But this term, I entered more As into the computer system than ever before, and we celebrated with donuts and Diet Dr. Pepper and a silly class picture.

Art Attack!

Art is everywhere, and I'm loving it!

This weekend in Eugene, Mary, Daney, and I went to an incredible art fair. There was pottery, paintings, silver, silkscreenings, soap. Weavers spun wool, glass blowers blew, and Young Bollywood dancers pranced across a packed stage.

When I came home, I framed and put up a few of the kids' pieces: Dominic's bright bald guy sitting on a couch with peace pillows, Daney's watercolor owl under the moon, Rees' colored pencil "Duk Bil Platapoos."

Tomorrow in class, I'm sharing my love; we're doing a lesson on writing essay titles with a billion little worksamples from Pacific Northwest artists.

One of the things I love about art is how long it takes. That it's a process. a quick change, making the world different, better.

I've planted all kinds of bulbs and perenialls outside. Nothing will pop for four or five months, but the seeds are all there, the color is waiting.

If you are in need of some reds, greens, and purples, if you're craving pretty, look up Catherine Denton's blog. You might win yourself some inspiration!

Cerebral Week

By Thursday night when my writing group resumed after our summer break, my head was seriously swirling.

In four days, I had drafted a new curriculum for the community college writing classes I start teaching on Monday. I began writing a new novel with my husband. I critiqued a fabulous manuscript, went to an inservice day at school, and penned an 8-page essay about my dad. (A couple of these were done simultaneously. Guess which?)

Plus, there was the middle school math homework: Dominic's statistics and Daney's factoring.

Thank goodness for the season premier of "Glee."

Nothing soothes me like some Sue Sylvester.

"Part" Time

It's over, my fifth year of teaching at Rogue Community College.

At the end there, it got a little crazy. But I made it, and not only through 7 writing classes at 3 different levels, with around 200 students, and maybe 2,000 pages of grading.

I made it, despite our house's having swine flu, chicken pox, fifth disease, and two broken noses.

Around my teaching, life happened. Dominic did basketball and track. Daney had fewer seizures than last year; she played piano and read through the whole kids' section of the library. Rees strummed "I Feel Good" to a packed audience.

Dave fought a few huge fires, and several smaller ones (some right here at home).

In eight months, I went to Seattle, Sacramento (four times), San Diego, Mexico.

I revised a book.

And now, we're leaving for Auburn again. My brother, Mac, graduates from high school. There's a pirate party, of course, and a surprise slide show that Steven and I have been working on.

So more from there, later.

But for now, I'll say this: my year, it was nothing.

I sketched out a little prose of what went on in my classroom in this last term. Sure, I'll post it, and it's all true. But you'll never, ever believe it.

Part 2: The Other Stuff I Learned Lately

So, among finishing my revision and grading 60 5-page papers on terrorism, and oh, yeah, raising three kids (sorry, baby, now I get why you've been doing all the shopping/cooking/cleaning/laundry), I was recently a critiquer for a literary contest. I can't say which one, or where, or anything, but I can pass on what I learned from reading the first couple dozen pages of a mound of literary fiction entries.

Most of them were purpose-centered around the MC's journey of self-discovery.

Themes were mostly relationships or historical or spiritual.

Internal and external conflicts were tough to balance and maintain.

Often, secondary characters could've used much more rounding out.

Somehow, I could hear the masculine voice of the writer. These premises were either a war or a quest, and were action-packed. But they often lacked reaction and emotion.

Also, as the reader, I found myself looking for dialogue -- really craving it.

And setting was everything: I wanted to know the place and time exactly.

There. Reading all this other work really made me evaluate my own. It was insightful. If I can use it to make my work stronger, that's good. And if I helped other writers strengthen their work, even better!

What I'm Learning From Reading -- Part 1

I'm smack in the middle of editing and scoring 60 community college critical thinking papers (hence the bloglessness), that are, for the most part, pretty decent.

The topic isn't an easy one, especially for conservative Medford, Oregon: "How have the events of 9/11 shaped or shifted the U.S. perspective on Muslims?"

Yet, the papers--the first of the term--are sophisticated in sentence structure, with questions, semi-colons, participial phrases.

College-level word choice is used.

Usually content is a problem: putting in what's relevant, and keeping out what's not. Hard to do in 5 pages. But it seems less so this time.

Because it's APA, there's an abstract, and a reference page.

It's all definitely not something a student can whip up in an hour.

Most papers are either B-s or Fs.

Here's what's going well: leading into and away from citations, using transitional phrases, integrating implications and interesting introductions, titling the person quoted.

Militant Islam is distinguished from Islam itself.

Conclusions include calls-to-action of examination, understanding, and education.

The pitfalls are what they usually are: connecting introduction to the body, achieving length, citing properly, tightening conclusions.

I try to head off those issues in class, but they seem hard to overcome.

In all, I learn from these. How to be a better teacher. How to be a better writer. How to be a better person.

Most students will put about 10 hours of work into writing these papers.

Between the planning, the prep, the instruction, the grading, me, I'll put in about 60.

In the Trenches...After Being in the Trenches

Today, I taught in tennis shoes. The sleeves of my sweatshirt were pushed up, and my hair was pulled back in a ponytail. By 9:30, I had chased a(bad) cup of coffee with Diet Coke on ice.

A half-hour later, I was in front of 30 eager community college writing students, denying my exhaustion to share what I'd learned over the weekend at the SCBWI Western Washington Illustrators/Writers Conference. So between each pair of students I'd set a different postcard from a conference illustrator's portfolio sample.

Our class opened with a quickwrite. The students each had to tell the story behind the postcard. After they revised, they read to their postcard partner.

Of course, the stories were wildly different. Is there any better way than art to prove plural perspectives? It's all about interpretation.

After two classes, I was wiped out.

I can't begin to imagine the hours of work the Conference committee puts in to pull off a show like that--and to make it look as smooth as it does.

This year was abundant with inspiring writers and artists, agents and editors. Wasn't this blue just invented for author Mitali Perkins?Mitali's keynote was another good reminder of having faith in vision and voice.

And here's fan-favorite teacher/librarian Chadwick Gillenwater. That guy was all smiles 48 hours straight. I loved him even though he wouldn't spill how I could get a "Diva" name tag like his.

I posted this previously, but she's so noteworthy, I'll say it again: Egmont editor Elizabeth Law rocks. I mean, what New York editor just plops down at your lunch table and asks what you want to know? "L-Bone" is witty and real, and she lives for "Glee." Just don't submit anything about dreams to her.

Jordan Brown, HarperCollins editor, is also pretty awesome. He plugged and plugged and plugged the success writer's achieve by taking risks in their work.

Clarion Editor Lynne Polvino took a big plunge, herself--by suggesting that before the recession, the children's book market was overpublished. Interesting...

Harvey Klinger agent Sara Crowe was brave, too. She courageously left a nine-month old at home in New York to share her wisdom with us: to really know our characters.

And new-to-California agent Michael Bourret? If he'd let me, I'd be his best friend.

Arree Chung won the Art Award for his fantastic creations, including this ninja:

I could've used today to re-read my pages and pages of notes. I could've re-written some scenes, revised some plot points, taken some risks and refined my vision.

But I had to wait till tomorrow.

Because today, in tennies, I was in the trenches.

And, it was good.

This Is Jim Hageman

I don't know Jim Hageman.

I know his lovely wife, Tia, teaches kindergarten at my kids' elementary school.

I know they have a happy baby together.

Jim is 30-ish. He teaches PE at Dominic's middle school.

But I want to know him more.

Because yesterday when I picked up Dominic from track, there was Mr. Hageman, dressed in black sweats and a black cap, at 4:40 on the valley floor between the Cascade Mountains and Grizzly Peak, showing one kid how to throw a discus.

It was late. It was cold. Jim had been throwing and dunking and running and batting since 8 AM.

And yet, he was still working. He was still teaching.

Jim Hageman. I don't know much about him, but what I do know is really impressive.

After the Intro

Well, I'm 9,000 words into revising, now! I'm on page 25, which doesn't seem very far, but I'm happy about where the book is going.

I overhauled the whole beginning.

"Did the agent ask you to do that?" my husband asked.

"No," I told him. But I can't redo the end without changing the intro.

And it's better: stronger, with more layers and conflict, and character development. More wanting. More mystery.

I even changed how the character dresses. And how she talks. She is softer, more fragile, mistrusting.

There's so much to do. I remember Editor Nancy Lamb saying at a conference: "If it doesn't move the plot forward, it goes."

And as I use description, setting, I'm wondering how much of that moves the plot forward.

My book, DRAIN, is a literary paranormal. A WHAT? I know, right? A literary paranormal? The seeing element is minimal, though, to my character's conflict. It interferes with what she wants, and how to get (or keep) it.

I'm a skinny writer. Not at all skinny in the physiological sense, but skinny in that my manuscripts flush out around 52,000 words.

For this voice, I'm sticking with something hollow. It's often sad and empty, like wind through a tunnel.

But today, I go back to school. For two Critical Thinking classes. And there's a stack of manuscripts I need to give feedback on in the next couple of weeks. And there's kids and laundry. But I'll get it done, DRAIN. I totally see the end, and I'm super excited to get there.

Me(me)

My BCF (Best Cyber Friend) Shannon tagged me with this meme. Shannon is wise and hopeful and I would bet anything, a really good teacher. Like her, I love a HOT cup of good coffee, and hate dirty floors, and that my sisters live so far away.

Do you want to play?

Fill in the blanks after each bold word and tag 3 of your friends with your meme!

Here's Me(me):

I like musicals: live, on disc, or in the stereo
I like mochas
I like my friends--from Mo, who I met in kindergarten, to Anjie, my new writing partner
I like the fall
I like art
I like teaching and practicing critical thinking
I like decaf green tea
I like collecting Los Dias De Los Muertos skeletons with my kids
I like living in Ashland
I like living in America
I like when my kids lay in bed and read together
I like how I feel after I do yoga

I love my incredible husband. And San Francisco

Today is a new opportunity to be a more patient mom, to be a better house cleaner, to be a stronger writer, and to serve my students and community

I hate the word "hate"
I hate doing yoga
I hate ignorance
I hate that I hate ignorance
I hate girl drama

I (secretly) like weekdays when I'm off work and have the whole, quiet house to myself

I love my two families: my little one, where I'm the mom, and my big one, where I'm the sister

At Maximum Capacity, With Room For Some Good News

It's the end of the term, of winter term. There's a stack of 30 analysis papers in my living room. And a pile of 10 billion Legoes on the floor.

Conferences are coming up. For my students. For my kids. Grades are due. Bills are due.

I didn't even realize yesterday (the FOURTH) was March, and forgot to pay the piano teacher.

I left my grading sheet (!) at school.

I left my phone at my friend Wendi's house. So I missed my first ever call FROM AN AGENT!

But!

Things are really really good right now.

My marriage is strong, and will be even better when Dave gets off shift today.

My kids are healthy.

There's enough fruit to throw in the blender for a smoothie.

"Brookyn's Finest" opens tonight, and I'm a sucker for a good bad-cop movie.

We get to go to "Grease." For free.

The daffodils are right outside my door, if I'm in doubt that spring will ever come.

It's my friend Leslie's birthday and she's having a Circus Party.

Christy sold book rights to Russia!

AAAAAnnnnnddddd....

An agent I enormously admire has completely renewed my faith in YA writing. I absolutely LOVED my conversation with her yesterday, and am hoping whole-heartedly.

A Gem, To Me

Time online claims that "Precious" is "too powerful for tears."

I disagree.

The way Precious' mother Mary (Mo'Nique) belittles and berates her teenage daughter killed me. And it was nothing compared to the crying I did with Mariah Carey, Precious' social worker, when Mary explains and excuses her abominations.

It is exactly this abuse, this smashing of self worth, that teachers combat daily.

So when Newsweek whines that "Precious" is another movie that keeps down African Americans, I was livid.

What about the essence of the story: how Precious takes back her child? Where she chooses to try, despite her lack of education and skill, to be a good parent? That although, yes, the odds are not in her favor, she is willing to give it her best shot.

How is that unlike the spirit of the first African Americans?

It's the same struggle, is it not? For freedom, for children, for education.

"Precious was lucky to find the alternative school that could help her," Newsweek states. "But that's fiction. In reality, there are far more Preciouses than there are teachers to help them. Movies such as this one allow us to forget that."

How sad. And untrue.

I thought a valuable movie like this reminded us that there are indeed helpful teachers.

Because there are.

A lot of them.

A Socratic Perspective on Ethics in Education

My old school district was recently rocked by scandal. It seems there was some infidelity among teachers and administration.

Colfax, California, might be small, but allegations of affairs should not have been plastered all over the papers. Careers were ruined and marriages ended.

These were people I went to high school with. Instead of moving to bigger cities to become business reps or doctors, they got their credentials and returned to their communities.

They've gone to every Falcons football game, twenty years running. In their classes are their own teachers' grandkids. They've bought houses by their old bus stops.

If these were not teachers, though, would their private lives have mattered? Would they have been publicized?

If these were insurance agents, or nurses, or lawyers, would anyone care about the "news?"

It's been my experience that for some reason, teachers are held to the highest moral standard.

Why is that?

Is it not enough that educators sacrifice salary to care for kids and nudge them toward the benchmarks?

After five or six years of college, with graduate degrees, teachers begin working for maybe forty grand. They'll top out at sixty after thirty years of collecting homework, grading essays, and chaperoning dances.

And they are never to be seen in a bar, or on a date, or getting a speeding ticket. If they cross a moral line? Devastation.

In essence, society is expecting a highly educated yet severely underpaid population to provide an ethical example.

Is that fair?

Role Reversal

It was a Wednesday morning, and I was sitting with Dominic's middle school class, when, seven minutes into the presentation on watersheds, I was overcome with hunger. The clock on the wall showed three hours until lunch. How was I going to wait that long?

My mind began to wander. While the speaker power-pointed feeder streams, I studied everything on the walls: taxonomic charts, quotes by John Muir, lists of prepositions. And after it was all committed to memory, I crossed my feet under the table and tried to listen about groundwater absorption.

I wondered how much longer until we could go outside and actually do something with watersheds.

And when we finally did go out into the morning fog, my hands froze, and my ankles bled from slogging through blackberry bushes, and I wished we could go back inside.

The shovels were heavy. The dirt was dirty. And I thought how lucky the kids in Manhattan were to never have to think about watersheds.

Hungry and hurt, tired and cold, I swept up a pile of ivy leaves. Dominic and his friends yanked vines from the earth with gusto and cheer, as I slunk off toward The Beanery.

Best. Papers. Ever.

While my kids sorted and traded their Halloween candy on Sunday, I finished grading my community college students' papers. This is the last writing class most of them will ever take. It's critical thinking/persuasion.

Our topic was a tough one: terrorism. And the readings were even tougher: essays from the American Spectator, from National Commissioners, university

professors, politicians.

This was the question: How have the events of 9/11 shaped the American perspective on terrorism.

Now, give that a second or two. How have the events of 9/11 shaped the American perspective on terrorism?

There is fear. There is stereotyping. There is public policy. But there is no more invincibility.

It took my class three weeks to find that out. By picking apart tomes on "terror," we could define it, identify it, analyze it.

We read. We talked. We asked a lot of questions. In fact, we came up with more questions, harder questions, than the one we were given.

Then we wrote.

My paper began with the last lines of the Broadway musical "Cabaret": "It was the end of the world. And I was dancing with Sally Bowles. And we were both fast asleep."

My conclusion was what one of the authors coined "a wake-up call": how the United States' oblivion collapsed with the Twin Towers.

"Terror" is not a pleasant topic. But these papers were an absolute joy.

Every student took a stand and supported it--well.

Titles were carefully chosen, and transitional phrases were used. There were accusations, projections, calls-to-action, not to mention miraculous editing.

Every several terms, a class emerges from out of nowhere with wisdom, effort, and intelligence.

It just makes the job so worth doing.