Week Two: Not Writing

What is going on? I am not writing everyday. I am not writing any day. I am not writing. It happens, I'm told. But it doesn't happen to me. I have a lot of projects in my head. That is nothing new. What is new is that they are not writing projects. Now that the laundry room is clean, the books are weeded, and the cabinet in my study is sorted-- now that those projects are done-- maybe now I can get going on a writing project. We'll see. But for now, I'm not writing. What is going on?

Stopping by the HIdden Curriculum on a Spring Evening

I reach to name that which bubbles in ready laughter and stands still in tears that don’t fall, but I can’t.

There is a story being lived out everyday in our third grade that can’t be pinned down in words. It is a song with unwritten chords that leaves a trail of notes in the air, sung and unsung, all at once. It is a poem with one last word that is missing but keeps us waiting. Hoping. Longing. Reaching. The base notes are found in couplets of call and response.

I’m sorry.
I forgive you.

I’m taking responsibility.
That’s who you are.

Let me help.
I know you will.

I’ll include you.
No one is left out of the circle.

I’ll do it.
I’ll help.


This is the evidence of the hidden curriculum that can’t be laid out with blueprints or spiraling objectives or benchmark tests. Mastery of the hidden curriculum takes a lifetime. I create a space for it to happen and the space is broadened and deepened through inquiry, interaction, and the interruption of real life. There is no record, except for whatever it is that bubbles up in easy laughter and stands still in tears that don’t fall. I stop in awe. And then I give myself a shake. I have objectives to teach. And miles to go before I sleep.

Buttons and Patterns

When my mother sewed,I played with a tin can of buttons. She gave me the buttons when I became a teacher. She thought I might be able to use them in art activities. I knew they were too precious for that.

My five year old granddaughter is spending the night tonight. As I write, she plays with the tin can of buttons. She loves them and I love watching her play with them out of the corner of my eye. And I wonder if she will write...

"When my grandmother wrote, I played with a tin can of buttons."

A Love Fest

Tonight we have Parent/Teacher Conferences. We do this twice a year: once in the fall and now in the spring. The best advice I ever got about Parent/Teacher conferences, I got from my mother (who is not a teacher). She looked forward to her first conference with the first grade teacher of her first child. She sat down and waited with her hands folded in anticipation. Miss Matthews (who I loved and knew loved me, too) started with a smile and a big sigh. "There is something about Annie I can't put my finger on. She reads beautifully, but there is something..."

My mother didn't hear the rest. She fought back the tears until she got out of the room. She had been so sure that Miss Matthews would see what she saw and was so disappointed to find that that it was not known, seen, or celebrated by my teacher.

Before I begin each conference I remind myself what special gifts I see in the child. And I begin by naming them. This is an opportunity to celebrate family, parenting, life. And sometimes it is the time to name battles and assure the parent that they can be won. I do that, too.

I loved Miss Matthews. Her picture is on my desk at school. She told me that when she had children she hoped she would have a little girl just like me. That probably would have been a good way to start the conference. It would have made all the difference.

Six Inches Off the Ground

Two weeks ago my student teacher said she was nervous. It was time for her to take over some of the teaching. "Don't worry you're ready," I assured her. "I'll be right here."

I explained that the training wheels were six inches of the ground, which meant she could ride the bike -- she just didn't know it-- and she needed me to run beside her in case she felt like she was she going to fall.

"I am right here. You won't fall."

Last week I explained to the children that our student teacher was fast becoming a teacher. And a really good one. I explained that we had joined hands to help her jump across the threshold from student teacher to teacher. And I told them that now their hands would be enough... that I could and would be stepping back to watch their work together.

Today she taught all day. She began the day by projecting a picture of children at Ellis Island on the wall above the blackboard. She asked our third graders to write five observations on an index card. Then she asked them to flip the cards over and write an inference.

At morning meeting, she sat my the rocking chair and led the greeting. We both knew it was right. She read a letter from a ten year old at Ellis Island as a mentor text. She asked what we could "hear" in voice. She put on violin music from Schindler's list and sent the writers off to experiment with voice as they wrote letters as children who came through Ellis Island.

The day ended as beautifully as it started. And the training wheels came off.

A Dwellling of Words

"Bring them to school and read them to us, too!"

I have a dwelling of words that is home sweet home and it is called My Book House. My Book House is a set of books that my grandmother bought from a traveling salesman when she was pregnant with my mother. Her husband, my grandfather, was a Naval Officer and was out to sea. When my mother was born, my grandmother started reading those books aloud. And she read those books to my mother even after she could read them on her own. And my mother read them to me even when I could read them on my own.

When we were evacuated from Cairo in the June Six Day War in 1967 with the rest of the American Embassy, two of the books were left behind. And we never got them back.

When I met Ben (who is now my husband), he took me to meet his parents. I couldn't resist looking at the bookshelves (I never can), and there they were... the complete set. My Book House. No wonder we could finish each others sentences.

I read My Book House to my children even after they could read them on their own.

I told my third graders this story and I told them how now I read them to my granddaughters, too.

"Bring them to school and read them to us, too!"

And today I did. I read them all about the 'ring of luck' and the 'ring of wisdom.' I invited them into My Book House. And they liked it there.

For the Love of the Game

Basketball is big in my classroom. Really big. And some of my most reluctant writers were given tickets to the CAA tournament this weekend. I knew what they would want to write about today and I was ready. I immersed myself in the sports pages this Sunday and it didn’t take me long to see that the the sports section is rich with opportunities for mini-lessons.

I read For the Love of the Game by Eloise Greenfield. I shared sentences from the sports pages and from Sports Illustrated. I demonstrated that sports writers often add energy to their writing by starting a sentence with a verb. After several examples, I encouraged my students to try it in their own writing and it worked. One of my struggling writers wrote:

“Dashing down the court, I was ready to take my shot.”

He shared it with me and I gave him a quick hug.

“You ARE ready”, I said.

“Yup,” he smiled. “I am.”