Don't stop believin'

Hold on to that feeling

In the spring of 2001, with years of internships and the trial-by-fire that is student teaching behind me, I had my first-ever paying gig teaching lit and comp at a nearby high school. The job didn’t pay enough for me to move out of my childhood bedroom, and instead of my own classroom, I was given an AV cart and a forgotten corner of a teacher workroom to call my own. Because I was hired to fill the shoes of a teacher who quit with little warning, I’d had next to no time to plan out my semester. Every day, I showed up, foundered convincingly, and counted the days til summer break with one shining jewel of a thought in mind: “I know next semester will be better.”

I’ve taught in some sort of classroom every semester since that first one, and every semester, I’ve clung to the belief that “oh yes, next semester is gonna be better.”

Photo by Apelcini

In 2001, “better” meant I knew I’d trade that clunky cart for a room of my own, and I’d have time to plan out my curriculum over the summer. Over the years, “better” took on a more nuanced meaning. As the semester’s end was in sight, I’d begin to think about how I’d tweak a writing assignment, teach a new novel, or try a new project when the new semester dawned.  Now that I have set down roots at GCC, “next semester will be better” has meant pivoting to OER, building new course shells, and finding new ways to make writing relevant to my studens. Next semester, I am trying out a Learning Community with one of my colleagues and it’s gonna be awesome. 

In no other career than teaching does one have so much creative freedom paired with periods of time where the “doing” stops and gives way to time to think, marinate, and plan. Every semester, we run full steam ahead at the hard stop that is the date that grades are due, then we slow down, we rest, and we plan with feelings of excitement for the semester to come. 

This rhythm of teaching–the deep well of creativity and the jolts of excitement–are my favorite thing about this career that I chose before I even knew anything about work and being an adult. In 22 years of teaching, I’ve never stopped believing that next semester will be better. That feeling of excitement and promise always arises in me as one semester draws to a close and I see the next waiting on the horizon.

Inside my brain, there are two entities locked in battle for control of my life.

The first, surprising exactly none of my friends, is a Golden Retriever. Spry, eager to please, always in pursuit of snacks. This is the side of me that is in love with life, who signs up for everything, who nods eagerly in meetings. Yes! That’s a great idea. YES! Let’s totally do that! Oh, there will be cookies? Even better! Ever the optimist, this side of me lives by the mantra, JUST SAY YES, and it’ll all work out.

The other entity dwelling within me is the bedraggled and tired old sap holding the leash. This is the side of me who has to make sense of each calendar day filled with wildly conflicting commitments. (I have to be in two places at once AGAIN?) This side of me drags her feet when it’s time to leave the house for that thing we said we’d attend and feels paralyzed when that deadline approaches. This side of me is tired of being dragged down the street by that damned Golden Retriever and would love to sit down for a spell.

In March of 2020, when the Golden Retriever was strapped into a cone of shame for its own safety and forced into a kennel, the holder of the leash set the leash down, stopped moving, took a deep breath, and listened to the birds.

When the world stopped and we all stayed home, I was prepared to feel itchy and twitchy. Those feelings never arrived. I was shocked to discover that I liked slowing down. I craved balance. It was then that I realized for the first time that there are these two sides to me. (I guess the dog never looked over its shoulder at who was trailing behind?) It was at this time that I also realized that the side that holds the leash to my life is also the side that writes, that reflects, that notices.

Through this pandemic, I learned that there is value in doing, and my life is rich for saying yes, yes, absolutely yes to the opportunities that come my way, but there is also great value in allowing space in my life for peace and rest and thought.

This balance that I want in my life won’t happen accidentally. I understand now that I have to seek it out. I must, occasionally, say no. The happy pup must learn to heel.

Postscript:

The side of me that charged full steam ahead to bring back Write 6x6 was absolutely the Golden Retriever. The side of me finally sitting down to write this belated post is the keeper of the leash.

The Golden retriever also humbly requests that you still ask her to participate in things. (Especially if there are snacks.)

I have this friend who, a few years ago, found herself in the hospital receiving treatment for a heart condition. Everyone who knew her was dumbfounded. She had lived her entire adult life as not only an avid runner but as a vegetarian. There was no one I would have been more surprised to learn had a blockage in her heart.

My friend is in great health today. Her treatment was successful, and the doctors said that her condition was genetic. In response to the incident, however, she graduated from a vegetarian diet to a vegan one.

Now when we get together for a bite, ordering at restaurants has become, shall we say, more complicated. Sometimes when the waiter comes to our table, she orders something from the menu apologetically asking for a few adjustments here and there. Sometimes the cooks will rummage around in the kitchen and pile something suitable on a plate. (Voila!) Sometimes she ends up with a disappointing bowl of lettuce and balsamic vinaigrette.

But sometimes? Sometimes we will open the menu and there will be vegan options hanging out right there amidst all the other entrees. On those occasions, we smile, feeling welcome, and turn our attention more pressing issues, like catching up on each other's lives.

If my classroom were a restaurant, I would want it to be the kind where every diner's needs have been considered before they walk through the door. I would want to be the kind of restaurant where no one has to ask the cooks to conjure up something on the fly. No one should feel like they are an inconvenience because they need something different than the "typical customer" in order to be successful.

I believe that inclusion means building an accessible classroom before a student who needs those accommodations ever enrolls in the course.

In recent semesters, improving the accessibility of my classroom has become one of my missions. Thanks to workshops in the CTLE, and talking with other instructors who are doing the same, I've learned how to make sure my syllabus and course documents are accessible to all students, including those using screen readers. I've learned how to edit the transcripts for the YouTube videos I post for my online classes, and I've begun to turn on Closed Captioning for all videos I show in my in-person classes, regardless of who is seated in the room. I've also begun to share a link to my Google Slides presentations with all students in the weekly overview in Canvas, not just with those who ask me for a copy of my notes. Building these habits into my teaching routines now means that I am ready for any student who joins my class. I won't have to scramble to build new habits in order to support their success in my class.

I know that building a culture of inclusion is an ongoing process--no one is ever really done with this task. However, I am proud to say that I am making progress every semester.

Cheers to that.

When I was a kid, I had a knack for finding the spot in the outfield or on the basketball court least likely to see any action. I would stand, shielding my eyes from the relentless Arizona sun, contemplating which Catholic saint was the correct one to call upon to deliver me from gym class. Sometimes, despite my best effort, the ball would find me anyway, and I would feel the eyes of my classmates upon me as I failed to execute whatever maneuver was required of me. Each perceived failure just confirmed for me that I did not belong in the world of physical fitness.

Here is a short list of things at which I did excel in my youth:

• daydreaming
• listening to a cassette tape of The Cure's Disintegration
• napping
• finding the right word in my rhyming dictionary to complete that couplet
• snacking

One of my favorite poems by former Poet Laureate, Billy Collins, is "Introduction to Poetry." 

I love the vibrant and clear images in the first five stanzas, as the speaker describes the many ways he wants his students to experience a poem. The speaker guides his students to "waterski / across the surface of a poem," and to "drop a mouse into a poem / and watch him probe his way out." I love how, in a poem exploring the difference between inhabiting a poem, and seeking the 'answer' to a poem, Collins's meaning is delightfully unambiguous.

"Introduction to Poetry" turns on the word 'but' in the sixth stanza, sharply contrasting the whimsical images found in the poem's opening with images of torture and violence in its conclusion. The poem closes with the image of students beating a poem with a hose.

It makes me chuckle every time I read it.

I thought it would be a fun exercise in creativity to write a poem of my own, emulating both the structure and the imagery of "Introduction to Poetry." However, I chose to steer the ending of my poem, "Introduction to Expository Writing," in a different, more hopeful, direction.

I had a lot of fun with this exercise. It is definitely a work in progress, and I have a feeling I'll keep fussing with it in the weeks to come, but I thoroughly enjoyed looking at the act of teaching First Year Composition through the lens of poetry.




Introduction to Expository Writing


I ask them to take an idea

and roll it out before them

like a map of the world



or thump its melon hide

and listen for signs that it's ripe.



I say build a tree house, and view an idea

from above the canopy,



or shape an idea into a sandcastle,

and see what happens

when the tide rolls in.



I want them to chart a course to the heart of an idea,

using the constellations as their guide.



But they eye me with suspicion and ask,

"How many words

does this have to be?"



And then they pick up their tools

with uncalloused hands

and begin to chisel.

One of my favorite poems by former Poet Laureate, Billy Collins, is "Introduction to Poetry." 

I love the vibrant and clear images in the first five stanzas, as the speaker describes the many ways he wants his students to experience a poem. The speaker guides his students to "waterski / across the surface of a poem," and to "drop a mouse into a poem / and watch him probe his way out." I love how, in a poem exploring the difference between inhabiting a poem, and seeking the 'answer' to a poem, Collins's meaning is delightfully unambiguous.

"Introduction to Poetry" turns on the word 'but' in the sixth stanza, sharply contrasting the whimsical images found in the poem's opening with images of torture and violence in its conclusion. The poem closes with the image of students beating a poem with a hose.

It makes me chuckle every time I read it.

I thought it would be a fun exercise in creativity to write a poem of my own, emulating both the structure and the imagery of "Introduction to Poetry." However, I chose to steer the ending of my poem, "Introduction to Expository Writing," in a different, more hopeful, direction.

I had a lot of fun with this exercise. It is definitely a work in progress, and I have a feeling I'll keep fussing with it in the weeks to come, but I thoroughly enjoyed looking at the act of teaching First Year Composition through the lens of poetry.




Introduction to Expository Writing


I ask them to take an idea

and roll it out before them

like a map of the world



or thump its melon hide

and listen for signs that it's ripe.



I say build a tree house, and view an idea

from above the canopy,



or shape an idea into a sandcastle,

and see what happens

when the tide rolls in.



I want them to chart a course to the heart of an idea,

using the constellations as their guide.



But they eye me with suspicion and ask,

"How many words

does this have to be?"



And then they pick up their tools

with uncalloused hands

and begin to chisel.

This year, I've found inspiration in an unlikely place: Twitter.

Twitter was once a place where I popped in for the politics, but stayed for the cat videos. Twitter can often feel like a place where everyone's anger dial is permanently turned up to 11, and that there is only one way to spell the word 'your.' However, it is here that I recently found a guru of positivity, and a champion of grit. I have found inspiration as a teacher in the 140 character bursts of genius from the composer, lyricist, playwright, singer and "former substitute teacher" Lin-Manuel Miranda.
It is 6:30 AM on a December morning, and I am standing, bleary-eyed, in my kitchen. Putting off the morning's more pressing tasks, I am dumping heaping scoops of coffee grounds into the percolator while simultaneously scrolling scrolling scrolling through my Twitter feed. I settle upon the following tweet, and, suddenly awake, I yell out "Yes! YESSSSS!"


The animals at my feet who were hoping for food scatter into the shadows.

As a teacher of writing, it is this concept that I am forever trying to impress upon my students. Rewriting IS writing.

Lin-Manuel Miranda not only tweets about the fact that revision is the beating heart of writing, but he also shares his writing in its various stages--something I think takes a lot of guts and vulnerability. He reminds me that sharing my own writing with my students, and talking with them about my own (laboriously slow) writing process, can make a greater impact on my students than a presentation on the five steps of the writing process ever will.
Despite the fact that Miranda has been awarded a Pulitzer Prize, an Emmy Award, three Grammy Awards, three Tony Awards, a MacArthur Fellowship, and a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, he has built a warm and welcoming community in his corner of the Twitterverse. He regularly replies to those who tag him in a tweet, chatting amicably, thus breaking down the barrier between celebrity and fan. Once, he even formed a book group dedicated to reading the works of Shakespeare with his followers.



He connects with his followers as one human being to another.

Teachers are far from celebrities, but the traditional collegiate classroom does still retain a bit of a hierarchy, forged over centuries of teacher-student dynamic. Is it my role to stand at the front of the room, imparting what I know unto a sea of students? Or maybe I am a writer, communicating with a room of writers, who happen to just be starting out on their journey?

I can connect with them, as one human being to another, and I can help create a community in my classroom, one amicable chat at a time.
Lin-Manuel Miranda is relentlessly positive and supportive of his 2.75 million followers. He dishes out inspiration like my mom dishes out sheet cake at a family gathering. (Take it! It's for you! You want ice cream with that? Of course you do. Here.)



I assume that from time to time, an unkind comment pops up in his feed, or that he spots some questionable grammar in the comments section of a post. If it bothers him, if Twitter ever makes him worry about the future of humanity, you'd never know it. He carries on, tweeting out one little poem of positivity after another.


As a teacher, it can be too easy to look at a stack of essays and sigh. We can be quick to spot the misused first person point of view, to deflate when noting the gaps in the grade book, or shake our heads at the empty chairs in class on a Thursday morning, but it the costs me nothing to choose to believe in the ability of each of my students to do truly great things anyway. I can emulate Lin-Manuel Miranda and remind my students, every time I see them, that today is a new day, and another chance to built their future.
Finally, I find inspiration in Lin-Manuel Miranda because the characters he writes about share so much with the students in our classrooms here at GCC. His characters come from diverse backgrounds and face a host of obstacles that they may feel are insurmountable.

In Miranda's first musical In The Heights--which he wrote during his sophomore year of college, a feat in itself--the character Nina Rosario is the first one in her family, and the first from the barrio, to go to college. However, in the first act, she wrestles with how to tell her parents that she has dropped out of school. She found the pressure of college to be too great, and her support system to be too far away.

In Hamilton: An American Musical, in the beginning of the play Alexander Hamilton is a nineteen-year-old "young, scrappy and hungry" immigrant from the Caribbean, trying to finish college early and go make his mark on the world.

These are the stories of so many of our students at Glendale Community College. A large population of our students are far from the country they call home, and are trying to navigate not just American culture, but the expectations of college as well. Many of our students are first-generation college students, whose family may not know how best to support them, or even have the resources to do so.

The work of Lin-Manuel Miranda keeps fresh in my mind the very real struggles faced by the students in my classroom, like my student who writes everything in Vietnamese, then translates it into English, but who also regularly visits my office hours to make sure she's on track. Or my student from The Gambia who wrote a beautiful piece about the conflict back home in one blog post, and about his favorite West African coffee (Cafe Touba!) in another.
Much of Twitter may be loud, angry and riddled with trolls, but I've found lovely little corner filled with art, encouragement and community in the tweets of Lin-Manuel Miranda.