New Blog!

Hello~

I have moved over to Wordpress in order to make it easier for my students in the fall. If you would like to follow me still, check me out at livingalifeofgrace.wordpress.com.

See you there...

I'm Sad...

I haven't shared this in my classes, but I feel as though it would be the best place to do it. Last week, when that horrible bus accident occurred, it really affected me. I thought of my own students and the fact that many of my students are represented by those five students who perished in that bus tragedy. Looking at the faces on the news, I feel as though I am looking at the faces of my students in my classes. Like them, many of my students are the first people to attend college in their family. Like them, my students have tremendous hopes and dreams for their future. Like them, my students believe they will live forever. Yet...that isn't the case, as we saw in that tragedy.

I think about the parents who gave permission for their children to get on that bus, thinking nothing horrific could happen to them. These were "good" kids with goals and strong work ethics. Life is "good" for kids like this. How many parents said good-bye that day? How many parents were there to see off the bus on its way? That seems like something an elementary or middle school parent would do, but I wonder how these parents of high-schoolers have wished they would have been there,  if they weren't.

That is where my mind is on that tragedy. It "hits a little too close to home" for me. Any one of them could have been sitting in my English 99 or English 101 classes next semester, but they're not. And they won't be...

Yikes! I'm Swamped!

As I am reading student blogs, I realized it has been some time since I have posted a blog post.

I have to be honest. It has everything to do with the fact that I am swamped. I wonder if students realize that teachers are as busy as they are. Given that I teach writing, I am perpetually behind at reading writing. I have had "funny" students tell me I could stop assigning it. While that would be lovely, and I could find a way to "test" students through scantrons, it wouldn't help my students' writing get stronger. Thus, I am continually reading and running behind on writing...

And to be honest, I hate being behind. My favorite days in class are the days when essays and all ancillary work has been graded and handed back. Those days seem only to exist at the beginning of the semester and at the end.

For my students who are reading this, I care. Trust me, I care that you care about your grades. Just bear with me, as I slowly work through all of your writing.

Throwback Thursday

I had an interesting conversation last night with one of my students at Fullerton College. In assigning my essay on technology/new media, it pushed her to think about my experience with technology growing up. She came up to me after class, and this was the conversation that ensued:

V: "I think I have an idea for my paper, but I need to ask you an important question."
Me: "Okay…"
V: "When you were in high school, and you needed to communicate with your teachers, how did you do that?"
Me: "Well…we visited their room before or after school, or we left them a note in their box in the office."
V stood there for several minutes trying to digest what I had just said. There was a look of complete shock on her face. "Realllllllyyyyy?"
Me: "Yes, really." 
V: "So you had to go and see them?"
Me: "Yes. Remember, there was no internet or email. It didn't exist yet."
V: "Wow! I can't even believe that."

This little conversation got me thinking about the things we take for granted. Technology has made our lives easier, as evidenced by this conversation. For her generation, she can send an email easily to her teacher, if she has any questions. In my generation, you had to gain a lot of confidence (actually, that was my issue as I was fairly shy and HATED bothering my teachers), and go and talk with your teacher face-to-face if you were having problems. I think this might be an important step that students are missing out on. Having to learn to talk with a teacher, who is in a position of authority forces students to learn how to be respectful and thoughtful of their actions. I wonder if having the ability to email or text a teacher lowers that standard because students don't have to look a teacher in the eye and be reminded of their position in the classroom. Not that I am a super formal-kind of teacher, BUT I wonder if the one of the problems we see in classrooms with respect and entitlement comes from the anonymity and ease technology provides. It's not the ONLY thing to add to this, but I wonder if it is a contributor….What do you think?

Monday's Musings

A few random musings about who knows what…

(1) I am seriously addicted to Tiny Death Star right now. I have had a smartphone for a long time now, and I have fought to keep games off my phone. Until now. I find myself seriously babysitting the building of the Death Star, and it is such a time suck. It taunts me. Seriously. It calls to my OCD-side that I need to keep the Death Star going. It needs to keep building. For what purpose? What would happen if I literally ignored it for days? Would the world end? I think not. Yet, here I am, as I write this blog, babysitting this dumb game.

(2) My husband, son, and I went and saw the Lego Movie. Let me first say, that I thought this was one of the best "kid's" movies I have seen in a while. It is witty and well-written. But that isn't the point of this musing. The point of #2 here is I love to watch movies and shows with my kid. He and I have a similar sense of humor, and he gets the dry humor. There is nothing better than to hear him laugh at the best jokes, and it makes me think that I have done something a little right with him. It drives me nuts when people have no sense of humor, or the humor they appreciate is the low-brow kind (not that he doesn't like poop, fart, and butt jokes). But he gets the high brow stuff too, and it makes me feel a bit successful as his mom and teacher.

(3) There is something about the Olympics. I have always loved both the Summer and Winter Olympics, ever since I can remember. A year ago, I used to ask an attendance question: Favorite Olympic Event? I found that most of my students do not watch nor ever have watched the Olympics. I was dumbfounded. This is the ultimate competition, as it exists on the world stage. It compares to the World Cup in soccer. It unites our world, and I think it is important. Here are my favorite Olympic events:

• Swimming (obviously!)
• Gymnastics
• Figure Skating
• Snowboarding (all the events)
• Super G (CRAZY!)

But I pretty much like it all, and I am a HUGE USA supporter too. I'm not going to apologize for that.

(4) I am incredibly excited about the blogging in class. There have been some GREAT blog posts, and I think people are figuring it doesn't have to be too painful. I love the way it connects us as a class…

That's it for now, I think!

A Narrative To Share

I have to admit. I love a good story. I especially like the ones that make me cry a little, or the ones that reflect on a situation that, at the time, seemed irrelevant, but later were determined to be significant. I don't know…there is something compelling about the simple moments in life. 

A few years ago, I wanted to write a narrative for my English 59 class at Fullerton College. This is a class that is two levels below college writing. I figured the students needed to "see" a narrative, so I took a few hours to put something on paper. 

In all honesty, I had been writing this story in my mind for much of my adult life. When the main situation in my story occurred, I began writing the rest. 

Below you will find the story in its entirety. To be honest, I have not revisited it since the day I drafted it, so it is rough, and it needs some revision. I find a few places to be obvious, and that annoys me. Anyways, I thought I would post it here to share with you. Maybe it will help you as you put your narrative together….

Half Made Whole

            I never felt whole.  I never understood why I never felt whole.  I just didn’t.  It felt like I had gotten out of a line for an event, but I didn’t know why and it had been a mistake. Every year that passed, I felt a void.  An emptiness I couldn’t express.  I showed this emptiness, this void, in my relationships with people.  Whenever I had trouble with a friend, instead of facing them, I would run.  I would hide.  I escaped into the void that I didn’t comprehend.  When my husband wanted to get close, I ran to the void, ignoring him, pushing him away.  It seemed safer there. One day, however, I was confronted emotionally, and eventually physically, with the void.  The “halfness” of me.  It changed my life; it changed me.

            I barely remember him.  My last memory of him was from the back seat of a car.  I cannot tell you what the car looked like, or even what he looked like.  I was nine years old.  Nine is a strange age, I think.  I felt like the most innocent little girl.  I loved dolls.  I loved to dance.  I loved to roller-skate.  I loved being a girl.  Yet, every time, I had to go with him,  I felt different.  I loved the dolls he bought me, not because they were dolls, but they were from him.  I didn’t dance in front of him.  I don’t remember roller-skating with him.  I wanted to be his girl, but he had moved on to a new family.  And I resented that.  I was no longer just his girl.  He had a new wife, a new son.  They were his priority.  They were with him every day, every second, every minute.  I got a weekend every six months.

            Sitting in the back seat of his car (which I don’t remember), coming from a fun weekend of Disneyland and Sea World, he asked me the question that would change my life, change me. 

“Do you want Roger to adopt you?” 

What did that mean? In my innocent nine-year-old mind, I couldn’t understand or fathom the extent of this question.  Looking back on this moment with my thirty-eight year old mind, I ask myself, can a nine-year old really make this type of decision?  Should I have ever been asked this question? From this time, I don’t think so. 

            With butterflies in my stomach, I looked down, a bit pale from the confrontation, and in a soft, almost inaudible voice, I said, “yes.  I want Roger to adopt me and Kevin.” I don’t remember his look, but I do remember the deadening silence of the car.  No words were spoken for awhile.  And, to be honest, I don’t remember his response.  Maybe there wasn’t one.  Maybe I don’t want to remember it because it may not have been the response I wanted to hear.  Did I really want him to allow another man to adopt me?  Even more, did I really understand the significance of it?  Did I know it would create my “halfness,” my void?

            Shortly after that day, we went to court, became “Hunts,” and he left my life.

            After the birth of my son, Ethan, I missed him.  I had given birth to Ethan a year before and was trapped in wondering about my dad.  Even though I had told him as a naïve nine-year-old I “wanted” a “new” dad, I could never understand how he had easily walked away.  How does a person walk away from his own “blood”? Sitting at my computer, I typed him a letter, telling him about my life and my brother’s life.  When I had completed it, I re-read it to insure I didn’t sound crazy or had made any grammatical mistakes.  I made some changes, printed it off, and put it in an envelope.  With my hands shaking slightly, I addressed it with his name, my former name, and added the correct postage to it.  As I placed it in the postal slot, it felt like I was in a strange dream where I could see myself from above but I couldn’t feel or connect to me.  The letter was gone…

            He never responded.

August 28^th, 2008. I sat looking at his obituary and news articles which described him as a “wonderful father and community leader.”  Was this the same person I knew?  Was this the man who failed to respond to my letter, or the e-mail I sent two years after the letter?  What happened? How could this man, the man who had five hundred people attend his memorial, be the same man who walked away all those years ago because a nine-year-old told him she wanted a “new” dad?  In my mind, I did not know him as this “wonderful father.”  I knew him as someone who left my mom and eventually my brother and me.  That void I felt, my halfness, was highlighted, on fire.  I needed to know.  I wanted to know this man.

I sat at the computer, pulse pounding, my heart racing faster than a thoroughbred.  I began typing.  Hello, Beth. My name is Amy Dickinson.  For some time, I’ve wanted to contact you, but I didn’t know if I should.  I’m still not sure if it’s right.  But, I just found and read about [our dad’s] passing, and it’s sent me and my brother into a bit of a spiral.  I don’t know if he ever told you and your brother about me and my brother…I hope this message doesn’t bother you too much. I just wanted you to know that my brother and I are here…All my best, Amy.

I knew I needed to contact my half-sister who I had never known and who I wasn’t sure if she even knew about me.  As I finished the message, my hands were trembling beyond control.  I re-read my message, pressed “send,” and it was gone into the internet ether.  What if she didn’t respond like him?  How would I handle it?  

I grabbed Ethan and my dog, Savannah.  We needed to walk.  I needed to get out of the house to calm the adrenaline that was pushing through my veins.  As we walked down the street about half a mile from my house, my mind was spinning.  Would she respond?  If she did respond, would she know about me?  Had I “opened a can of worms”?  Maybe I shouldn’t have sent the message.  I had lived the past twenty-eight years without him.  Why was it important to know these people now?  As we continued to walk, I worried; I also secretly hoped and prayed to God she would respond.  Thirty minutes later, we were back from our walk.  I wanted to run to the computer, but I was terrified.  After putting the dog away, finding other things to do around the house, and holding off the inevitable for as long as I could, I sat down at my computer. 

It was there:  the response. 

My hands were shaking even more than they had when I sent the message. With my heart pounding like a jackhammer; I opened the message.  Amy, Thank you SO much for contacting me! My brother and I do know about you and were planning on trying to locate you when things settle down a little. Wow, where to begin!...Despite him not talking about it much, by reading the agreement, knowing my father, and talking to my mom about it, I think he was deeply hurt by losing you and did it more for your sake than his…He was a very devoted father to my brother and I [..] can’t help but wonder if his devotion to us and the youth in the communities (which I’m guessing you read about) was partially fueled by the guilt of losing you two….Please, please be in touch and tell me all about yourself and your brother!!!!! I cannot begin to express the emotions that are going through me right now! Beth

            In the moment I read “he was deeply hurt by losing you,” hot tears streamed down my face like little rivers.  I began sobbing as I finished the message.  The void, the halfness, was filling.  Our dad did not tell my sister these things; she knew them from everything he had given her and others.  For some reason I cannot comprehend, I believe it.  I needed to hear he wanted me, and it seemed in his own way he had.

As the days progressed, our written conversation taught me about him, my brother, and my sister.  Each message that came filled a little more of the void, and it taught me about me.  Before long, my brother, Kevin, and I met Beth and Patrick in person in Maryland.  They too have never understood the decision our father made to stay out of our lives.  It didn’t seem to make sense with the type of father he was to them.  All of a sudden, it didn’t matter to me. In that moment of meeting them, my half became whole, and I felt like that innocent nine-year old again, who truly felt loved by her daddy.

We're Trying Something New!

I have to admit. This blog is fairly pathetic, as I find myself preoccupied by the mundane, the small things. 

As such, I want to pep this up a bit and turn this blogging experience into a bit of an experiment. I want to connect with you, my students. 

You'll need to start your own blog and connect it to mine. Try to find a way to create a username that I might recognize (along with your classmates). Or you might email me and let me know your username, so I can identify you and give you proper credit for yor work. 

Use this space wisely. The goal is to consider your audience. I recommend making your blog semi-private or public. You want to experience the larger audience here to test your ideas. 

I will never comment negatively to your ideas, even if I disagree. I will simply test them. I want you to disagree with me. I am not looking for a classroom of "mini-me"s. 

Engage with each other, but be respectful that we are different and have differing opinions. Remember rhetorical thinking. Remember kindness. 

Let's get started!

(1) Create your blog. 
(2) Make sure I can see it.
(3) Complete the first blog post: Blog about the ideas of narratives and/or the ideas in the readings about learning/writing/education. Tell me about your experience with any one of those...