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"What I found was a group of teachers who were indeed writers, even if they didn't consider themselves writers when they arrived. What I found were people who were passionate about children, who were interested in being the best teachers they could possibly be. What I found was a network of my peers willing and able to continue our discussions, our sharing of ideas, and our community of writers long after our summer institute ends." --Sherri Becker, Mitchell Middle School The 2002 Summer Institute brought together teachers from all over the state of South Dakota, who teach in a variety of disciplines and at different grade levels. Here, to give you a truer sense of what the institute was like, we share some of the pieces that DWP teachers wrote during the 2002 Summer Institute. These writings were also published in the 2002 summer issue of the DWP newsletter.
Marcia Votaw, Roosevelt H.S., Sioux Falls Un-expectations: 2002 DWP Institute teachers develop a close-knit community
Marcia Votaw reads some of her writing aloud while Jessica Peterson and Nancy Zuercher listen. Because I have survived and even flourished in various new experiences in my life, I was excited and anxious when I received my invitation to participate in the Dakota Writing Project's 2002 Summer Institute. Could I hold my own with the caliber of people who would be there? Could I find a carpool to help pass the long daily commute? Would I struggle to stay interested as I have in former workshops? With these thoughts in mind, I arrived at the DWP Institute with a few preconceived ideas. However, this summer's institute has been full of unexpected surprises.
First and most outstanding has been the sense of community that has developed within the group. Ranging in age from 25 to 64 years and teaching from second grade to technical school, we could fulfill many diversity group requirements. Our personalities and teaching styles are as varied as our classrooms. However, the strong bond that connects us is our love of teaching and our passion for our students. It has been refreshing to spend time with like-minded, intelligent, idea-seeking teachers; we freely share ideas that have worked, as well as our frustrations. It is this spirit of camaraderie and affirmation that has fostered a sense of trust and affinity.
Lunch finds many of us on blankets outside enjoying the weather and discussing our personal and professional lives. Our blanket fellowship has led to the planning of a get-together, caravaning to Sioux Falls for a home-cooked meal and an evening of games and fellowship. The sense of community has been most serendipitous.
Teaching is too often an isolating experience, so it has been rejuvenating to chat and share experiences and lesson plans with other teachers. Sherri brought me her entire unit on Anne Frank to peruse and even burned a CD of a Power Point presentation she uses. Pam shared her master's project with anyone who asked. LeeAnn made copies of handouts she uses in class for everyone. This openness and generosity in networking has been such a gift. Further, there has been a cornucopia of ideas, suggestions, and plans shared. This wealth of information excites and arms us with innovative ideas to use in our classroom. Such a practical, hands-on approach has been inspirational.
Finally, experiencing "assignments" from a student's point of view again has been enlightening. Being on the receiving end of education once more is both a gentle reminder of what our students must endure as well as a relaxing challenge. Ahh, to be given material and forced to think rather than being the giver and enforcer. Additionally, our daily writing has resurrected rusty, often neglected skills, and has reinforced the importance of teaching writing in creative, engaging ways.
The best analogy that comes to mind of the Dakota Writing Project is a camp experience where I am both fearful and eager about the event. There is that uneasiness about meeting new people, wondering if I can "measure up" to others, but by week's end I hate to leave. We have become friends and family, and the companionship that we have enjoyed has made these four weeks surprisingly rich.
Sherri Becker, Mitchell Middle School
Beyond the Summer Institute
Sherri Becker outlines her writing activity for the DWP teachers during her demonstration at the DWP Summer Institute. "Trust the Process" was the quotation on the board that first morning of the DWP Summer Institute. What did this mean? Were we going to be involved in something so eccentric that I wouldn't trust what these facilitators/ mentors were going to be asking us to do? A bit of skepticism crept into my mind. Introductions added more concern to my skepticism. How on earth was this writing project going to meet the needs of the variety of teachers we had in this single room? A writing lesson geared for second graders is definitely going to look different from a similar lesson for post-secondary students. I was beginning to wonder if this wasn't going to be an enjoyable but total waste of my summer.
My expectations were of an advanced, college-level course that would give me the rationale and research behind motivation of student writers, writing assessment, and the teaching of grammar. What I found was a group of teachers who were indeed writers, even if they didn't consider themselves writers when they arrived. What I found were people who were passionate about children, who were interested in being the best teachers they could possibly be. What I found was a network of my peers who is willing and able to continue our discussions, our sharing of ideas, and our community of writers long after our summer institute ends. Trust the process: there it was in bold letters each day as we entered our room. Indeed, the process did have us participating in writing groups where we shared our stories, articles, and poems with others who, with a critical eye, took the time to help us improve and grow as writers. This process also had each of us demonstrating a technique we use. This sharing of ideas and brainstorming ways we could apply it to our own classrooms was invaluable to me as a teacher. Finally, this process also brought us into literature circles where we shared research and literature on all of the topics I had hoped to cover.
I found four important messages here at the Dakota Writing Project that I will take with me:
- If you're reading everything your students are writing, then your students are not writing enough.
- Not everything needs a formal grade attached to it in order for it to be valid and part of the learning process.
- Write with your students and share what you've written. Modeling speaks much louder and clearer than lecturing.
- Trust the process!
Nancy Zuercher, University of South Dakota, Vermillion
DWP guests inspire observation and community
Guest demonstrations link experiences in art, science, writing, language, history, environmental studies and poetry.
Selection to be a DWP Summer Institute participant is an honor. An invitation to be a guest presenter is a veneration. This year DWP venerated three of its teachers: Michele Fleer, Mary Schmitz, and Dennis "Lars" Larson.On June 6, Michele Fleer demonstrated "Writing a Group Poem," which originated in her quest to promote poetry among her reluctant second graders. She discovered that a blend of art and science could elicit not only the language kids needed for poetry, but also their enthusiasm. Like her second graders, we dived deep into her theme, undersea life, bubbling with ideas. As artists, we painted purple, blue, and aqua undersea scenes, sprinkling salt on wet watercolors to make bubbles. We tore sea creatures and plants from colored paper and glued them to our scenes to the sounds of omnipresent talk. "That's important for generating poetry," Michele told us, as she moved around the room. Coming together as a group, we surfaced lists of sensory words from our undersea vistas and then divided into groups to write poems. Fleer, who teaches at Stewart Elementary in Yankton, has also presented versions of this well-received interdisciplinary demonstration at DWP inservices.
Mary Schmitz's June 10 demonstration, "Analyzing Political Cartoons," came from the American Studies class she teaches at Sioux Falls Roosevelt High School. Her energetic visual note-taking--a superior strategy to lecturing--engaged our hands, eyes, and brains as she and we mapped a history of the Viet Nam War. Once we had the history, we continued by looking closely at a cartoon of LBJ pointing to his famous scar as a map of Viet Nam. Groups of four then scrutinized other cartoons, wrote Schmitz's assignment for cartoon analysis and scored their writing on her rubric. David Kono was excited to apply Schmitz's demo to his fifth grader's study of the Civil War, while Marcia Votaw was eager to have her high school students experiment with drawing a literary work as a cartoon. Schmitz's presentations at DWP inservices have also received high accolades.
Dennis Lars takes the DWP teachers outside as part of his demonstration; Nancy Zuercher examines a leaf. Dennis "Lars" Larson, a 1995 Fellow and poet of Prentis Park, is now an outdoor educator with the Aldo Leopold Project and a health and physical education teacher at Mellette High School. His June 17 demonstration, a microcosm of his outdoor classes, taught us to make the invisible visible, just as Leopold did. He led us along a trail to the Vermillion River, inspiring us to observe actively with all our senses and challenging us to hang a red tag wherever we saw a "relationship of community," such as a tree with a web on it. Returning on the same trail, we stopped at each red tag to hear the story of community in sticky mites clinging to May Apple, a skunk's den in a hollow log, two trees twined like friendship rings. Back for debriefing in our cool classroom, we shared another facet of Lars: his Aberdeen American News columns. He left us with more generous gifts: Leopold's A Sand County Almanac and a "turnover stick" to remind us to look beyond simple appearances.
Lori Burton, Stewart Elementary, Yankton
Road trip vs. expedition in the classroom
Road trip! That describes my first year in a regular classroom. Expedition! This is what I strive for.Because of my participation in DWP, I have gained knowledge and skills necessary to transform my teaching of writing from a random road trip into an expedition.
"You got the job!" I was ecstatic but unaware of what my destination should be as a writing teacher in this fifth grade classroom. Perusing several books about teaching writing by Nancy Atwell, Shelley Harwayne and Lucy Calkins helped me to realize where I wanted to take my class. I wanted my students to choose their own topics and compose rough drafts without worrying about mechanics. My students would confer with each other and revise their writing. We would even publish their work. My role would be to present mini-lessons meeting their individual needs for grammar, spelling and vocabulary and to help them find their voices. My fifth graders would write incredible pieces about topics they truly cared about. My road trip began.
The trip was a great adventure--even though we bumped into roadblocks. I had no map or compass. I had a small car with a tiny gas tank and had to stop several times to refuel. And we took all detours possible, sampling all that learning to write has to offer, both good and bad. Needless to say, we did not arrive at our destination. However, I could see a glimmer of where I wanted to go on the horizon.
After participating in DWP, I will go on a well-planned expedition. I now have a roadmap and a compass as well as a destination. By listening, talking and writing with other writer/teachers, I have developed a travel brochure--my DWP binder--with suggested routes and incredible activities. My suitcase is packed with versatile demonstration ideas. Best of all, travel agents--DWP participants --are a click away via e-mail for continuing advice. An unexpected bonus will be if I can convince at least one co-worker to travel with me, sharing the trials and joys of a writing expedition.
Without experiencing the DWP summer institute, I doubt that my road trip would have evolved into such a well-planned expedition.
David Kono, May Overby Elementary School, Aberdeen
Technology and Writing
Technology has become one of the most important tools at the classroom teacher's disposal. Students are using computers in a variety of ways. They are searching the internet for current events, creating PowerPoint presentations in chemistry and American history, and using word processing for writing assignments.One way that I use technology in my classroom is through the creation of books that the students put together from writing assignments completed throughout the school year. The first writing assignment involves students composing character sketches about one of their classmates. Students team up and interview their partners, using a set of questions that I provide on family life, favorite books, favorite movies, and goals for the future. Students then use the answers to those questions to write a two- paragraph story about the person they interviewed. Once the writers have polished the sketches and checked that the information is correct, they present them to their partners. The students keep the character sketches written about them in their computer lab folders.
While the students are busy writing character sketches for their partners, I use the digital camera to take each student's picture. Each student has a computer disk to use for the entire school year, and the picture is saved on it. Students take the character sketch given to them by their partners as well as their disks to our computer lab. Students use Microsoft Word to type the character sketch and then retrieve the digital pictures taken of them to paste above their paragraphs. They use Word Art to write the words "About the Author" above the picture, along with the student's name. Students may decorate their page with clipart or pictures taken from the Internet that represent them. After these pages are published on the printer, the students glue them to construction paper and laminate them, creating the books' back covers.
Throughout the school year, students complete writing assignments in the following areas:
All pieces of writing are published after students have conferences with me to make sure conventions such as caps, punctuation, and paragraphing are correct. Each piece is evaluated on one or two of the seven writing traits. Students also publish introductory pages: an illustrated title page, a title page, a dedication page, acknowledgements, and a table of contents.
- an essay about the student's favorite winter activities;
- an exciting story tied to science about an invertebrate of some kind that we have studied;
- a letter written to a friend after studying the colonial time period in social studies;
- an essay on the student's favorite holiday activities;
- poems written as part of our outdoor education experience;
- a new and exciting version of an old fairy tale;
- a three-paragraph report on a topic of the student's choice.
Students then put their artistic skills to work and create cut/torn paper pictures for the front covers of their books. The illustration idea comes from one of the writing pieces the students have completed during the school year. Students use word art from the computer to write the title, the author's name, and other key information. They then compile everything into their new books. I evaluate their completed books using a 1-5-scale rubric on whether they followed directions, used lab time well, and included all pieces of writing that we worked on earlier.
This is an activity my fifth grade students like doing in the computer lab. When they finish a story, they work on PowerPoint presentations for other subjects such as language arts, social studies, or science, or they do other activities related to computer technology.
My fifth graders really enjoy sharing their books with their reading partners and, furthermore, feel a sense of pride. Students have something to take home and share with their parents and hopefully something to keep as a souvenir of their elementary school days.
Marcia Votaw, Roosevelt High School, Sioux Falls
Presenter Mary Schmitz offers a lesson in history
Okay, what is quirky, intelligent, feisty and enthusiastic? No, not Stitch from the recent Disney release, Lilo and Stitch, but, rather, Mary Schmitz, guest presenter at DWP on June 13, 2002.Known for her concrete, visual teaching style, Mary drew pictures as she talked with us about the Domino Effect in Vietnam. Using various colors, we soon had a clear image of what transpired from 1968-1972 in Vietnam. Our little stick Viet Congs and wobbly dominoes helped us remember the United States' involvement in Vietnam in a chronological, simple manner. Evident from her side comments and oversized gestures, Mary is an entertaining, effective teacher.
Teaching across the hall from Mary for the past four years qualifies me to attest to her teaching ability and engaging personality.
Role models have always been an integral aspect of my life, and my latest mentor is Mary Schmitz. During my frantic, feverish first year of teaching, Mary handed me her files, unit after unit, and said, "Use whatever you can; it might help." Help?! They saved me. Since that time, she has been a sounding board, a thoughtful colleague, and a model to emulate.
Mary may have the persona of a teacher, but she's actually a walking dictionary/thesaurus. Whenever I need a quick reference for a definition or a better word for a writing piece, I run across the hall and she never fails to produce a concise, usually humorous response. In addition to her expertise, her personality is most often positive and upbeat. Sometimes our department likes to wallow in the grumbles. Mary is most often the voice of reason, and her clear, thoughtful responses to complaints or frustrations puts life back into perspective.
Although Mary has taught for over twenty years, her enthusiasm for her students and subject has not diminished; in fact, it has grown. She inspires that same enthusiasm in her students and fellow teachers. She claims that she went into teaching, not because she loved kids (the standard answer she hears), but because she felt she really had a command of her subject, history. She was so enthused about what she knew, she believed that she could convey that material to others in an engaging manner.
And though she claims she didn't go into teaching because of her love of kids, she does love that AHA moment when what she has been striving to communicate finally reaches a student's brain "Teaching would be perfect if days were filled with those moments and there were never papers to grade," she said, a sentiment shared by many teachers.
Nancy Zuercher, USD, Vermillion
South Dakota Humanities Council funds "Poetry All Day" with Lee Ann Roripaugh
A working lunch. DWP teachers visit with poet Lee Ann Roripaugh and with one another, while one another, while one teacher (in the background) composes on a laptop computer. "Remember replenishing activities," Lee Ann Roripaugh advised DWP teachers as a way to prevent burnout. "Research trivial things, like squid, for example, that fascinate you."
Roripaugh, author of the prize-winning poetry collection, Beyond Heart Mountain, and a USD professor of English, immersed us in reading, discussing, and writing poetry during "Poetry All Day" on June 20. The day was made possible by a generous Speakers' Bureau grant from the South Dakota Humanities Council (SDHC).
In the morning workshop, Roripaugh read and discussed three poems that showed ways of understanding abstract concepts of death, happiness, and purity. Then she led us to brainstorm a list of abstractions, invited us to choose one, and write a poem full of concrete language--a daunting but necessary task to prevent "words from sliding off surfaces." Nevertheless, each of us created a readable poem for the read-around. A few of the more courageous posted them in the NWP E-Anthology.
In the afternoon workshop, Roripaugh read three dramatic monologues, noting that writing in the voice of another is "extremely liberating." Offering a stack of tabloids for quick inspiration, she invited each of us to select a tabloid story and play with bizarre and different new voices, creating one in a dramatic monologue.
Later that afternoon at the Coffee Shop Gallery, Roripaugh read selections from her poetry, including some from Beyond Heart Mountain.
Following our custom, DWP participants from other summers were invited to be DWP's guests on this special day. This year we welcomed Nancy Kampfe and Sharon Olbertson.
More information on the SDHC's Speakers' Bureau grants, including a catalog of available speakers and an on-line application, appears at http://web.sdstate.edu/humanities/.
Pam Wensing, Joe Foss High School, Sioux Falls
Andrea
She entered my room one day, small but sturdy, bright eyes behind thick glasses, a new pencil in her hand."I have new pen-co. I here. I stay," she said with certainty.
Andrea was a student with Downs Syndrome and the mental capacity of a five-year-old. My class was Spanish II. I had no idea why she'd selected my room to plant herself in, but she was there, looking as if she planned to stay. Already in "her" desk, she sat with her eyes fixated on me.
As I looked into her eyes, eager though blurred through her lenses, I wasn't sure what to do. In minutes my classroom door would open and a rush of high schoolers would pour into their first-hour class.
"Andrea," I said calmly and gently, "does Miss Huber know you are in my room?" Miss Huber was her teacher, waiting for her upstairs, in her area of our school.
She looked at me, eyes still steady, but her voice small. "No."
Reluctantly, I replied, "Honey, she is going to wonder where you are. You need to go to her room."
There was no movement.
Finally, I called Miss Huber on the phone. "Oh, for crying out loud!" She answered with a chuckle. "Send her up."
I turned back to Andrea. "Miss Huber needs you upstairs, Andrea. You need to go."
She looked at me, her disappointment penetrating my teacher soul. She clumsily lifted herself from the desk she'd occupied and headed slowly toward my classroom door, hand limply holding the new pencil at her side. She looked at me sadly until she disappeared down the hall.
There, in my guilt and hurting for this child, Andrea's face as she walked out of my room rumbled inside me. What could I do, I wondered. Finally, during my fourth period break, I called Miss Huber.
"Lila," I said, "I've thought about Andrea. What can we do, so she can be in my room every day?"After a long pause, Lila laughed. "ARE you CRAZY?"
"Probably, but this is a public school. Shouldn't she be able to be in my room if she wishes? She just wants to be with regular kids her age."
And, thus it began, Andrea's journey in la clase de espanol. Following a great deal of brainstorming, the director of special education, Andrea's foster mother, Miss Huber, and I devised an agenda.
Andrea would benefit greatly from a behavior modification plan. This child had a small--okay a rather significant--issue with inappropriate language. She needed to desist in profanity if she were to live amicably in the world. When she walked into classrooms, looked teachers in the eyes, and yelled, "Assho," she wasn't endearing herself to them. Our plan included both behavior modification and fine motor skill development. In addition, we wanted her to work in groups with other students. She was to be rewarded with treats. Andrea would do nearly anything for treats!
With a large treat chart in place, it was time for Andrea to join Spanish II. She arrived carrying that new pencil. She took her seat, wearing a very large smile between chubby cheeks, her glasses sliding down her nose. She beamed when she got a textbook and workbook. She couldn't read a word in either, but she was the proudest student in Spanish class.
Over time, Andrea took a semester of Spanish II and then a semester of Spanish I. Much to my amusement, her schedule landed her once again in Spanish II. I watched Andrea grow, along with the other students in my classroom, each semester. The students guided her and worked with her as if she were a younger sibling. She began to participate in more activities just for the sake of interaction. Her classmates made sure she handled herself in appropriate ways and kept themselves in check as well. Her profanity stopped, and her motor skills seemed to improve. She thoroughly enjoyed working with other students on projects.
One day toward the end of her third semester in our class, the students were quietly working on an assignment. As I stood at a student's desk, I heard a quiet yet articulate voice from the other side of the room: "Uno, dos, tres."
It was Andrea, and she was counting--in Spanish. Every student in the classroom directed their eyes to me, their mouths open in disbelief. I gently met my students' eyes, as my heart swelled with pride. Our journey with her had been successful beyond our hopes. Andrea had actually learned a bit of Spanish.
Jessica Peterson, Sioux Valley High School, Volga
You want grammar?
"Let's go out on the lawn," they gushed."Mmm-hmm," others assented.
I followed. The classroom was hot; green grass would be nice.
Clustered around the red blanket, we delved into how-tos and whys of grammar.
Then came the sting on my forehead. Stupid mosquito. Thanks for the pink blotch on my pale skin.
A movement on the leg of my neighbor caught my peripheral vision. Daddy longlegs was getting friendly. I flicked him away, then worried about having invaded my neighbor's personal space.
The breeze blew, chilly before a pending shower. I wished for my jacket but admonished myself to stay with the group. I buttoned my top collar button.Another bug on the black jeans of my neighbor--I swatted this time. See if you'll place yourself on my forehead again! My hand came back bloodied, and the mosquito's corpse remained on the leg of my neighbor.
This brought about a twofold response: "Blood-ew-who knows whose it is and what it's got in it?! Wash! Wash!" and "I can't leave bug guts on her leg. And--oh no--she's talking to the group!" But it's ingrained in me: "Clean up your messes. I've got to! I've got to!" I trusted the strength of my skin and let the fleck of blood sit. I turned to my neighbor and carefully scraped the bug off the denim with my notepad. Her voice never paused as she continued addressing the group.
Wishing to hide, and reacting to the speckling of raindrops, I tipped my head downward.
There it was--a little, red . . . chigger. Do we have chiggers in southeastern South Dakota? A little red crawly something was on my pale, white leg. A flick. Gone.
The chigger had accomplished its mission; however, I had been sufficiently distracted until I noticed the increasing itch on my right thigh. The culprit was long gone; I suppose that insects work in pairs.
Five mosquitoes and a fly did a dance around the blanket. Two alighted on my neighbor's jeans, but I left them to her insecticidal whims.
There--there he was again. Fluffy-tailed rodent with those beady eyes-looking-looking at me! He's not--do squirrels travel? Do they migrate one hundred miles southward over eighteen years? Is it him?
I watched carefully. He hopped a few yards, surveyed the grounds, then gazed steadily at me. I met his eyes, glaring. A passerby startled him, and he scampered behind a tree. I watched. There was no way he was getting behind me. Beady eyes near the ground to the left of the tree. Beady eyes. . . .
On that summer day when I was eight, beady eyes scanned my midget legs. They observed just where to sink tiny claws into soft flesh. Up the legs he scampered; down the teeth closed, chomping into the part of the body reserved only for sitting and spankings. A hospital visit--a baring of tush--an, "Aaah, yes, I see," in the doctor's knowledgeable voice.
And here, on this blanket, you want me to think about grammar? Fine, then--I'll think about grammar:
Noun: Predators
Verb: stalk
Direct object: me
Conjunction: and
Pronoun: I
Verb: want
Infinitive phrase: to go inside
Punctuation: !
Interjection: RAIN
Punctuation: !!!
Pam Wensing, Joe Foss High School, Sioux Falls
Down I-29: DWP commutes
I had known Marcia Votaw as an acquaintance because we both teach English in the same school district. I didn't, however, know much about her. When I discovered she was also attending DWP, I called her about carpooling. Because we were teachers, I was certain the monetary saving of carpooling was worth the effort!"Hello. Votaw's."
"Hello, Marcia. This is Pam Wensing. You're attending the Dakota Writing Project Institute at USD, aren't you?"
"Oh, yeah! And you're going, too?"
"Why, yes, I am," I replied, and that's all it took. Twenty minutes and many facts about our teenage daughters later, we were carmates! I couldn't believe it. This woman talked as much as I did. I was feeling better about this venture into unknown waters.
Our first trip to Vermillion flew by. I'm not sure that the conversation ever slowed, let alone stopped. This was going to be a good month! The world needed some saving, and we were just the two to do it! After our first day in class, to our good fortune, Judy joined us. We became the car poolers, the ones on the road, the ones down I-29.
As the days turned into weeks, our vehicle found its way down the lonely stretch of interstate by itself. We had serious work to do. Our world needed us and our expertise. We could just hear the need for reform as our conversations began to number in the hundreds. We discussed everything--literally! We had our school system cleaned up and funded. We had the correct candidates elected and serving us well. Education was their top priority. We had our retirements planned. We had our daughters figured out, in line, and loving their mamas. We commiserated on this feminine aging thing we have begun to experience. Why, we even lamented, celebrated, and put in their places our spouses or lack thereof. And, at the end of each trip down I-29, the world began to look a bit brighter--from our perspective, of course. Okay, so maybe we didn't actually fix anything except perhaps our own egos, but we felt great!
Despite all the saving of the world that we had done, the best thing we discovered in those lengthy conversations was friendship filled with laughter, similar views on life, and a need to talk.We found the feminine camaraderie that causes the world to go round, on an axis we select, of course. We were empowered, supported, and cheered. We were women, hear us roar!
At the end of the month of traveling down I-29, we decided we had a good thing going. We needed one another. There was still work to do. Our families needed us. The world needed us. We were up to the challenge, ready for the tasks that lay ahead, ready to continue to change the world. But, first, could we just have a nap?
Lori Burton, Stewart Elementary, Yankton
Enter my educational Camelot
Does it matter if my fifth grade classroom becomes a Camelot in which students thrive in an authentic learning environment for nine months, just to return to the real world at the end of May? Being able to write using your own voice. Reading books that touch your soul. Deciding where knowledge will take you. A Camelot of sorts, where opposing forces wait just outside the classroom door.Is it worth all the sweat and tears helping my fifth graders become avid readers, writers and learners? Next year in sixth grade, they will be awarded, "You Are a Reader" certificates for answering comprehension and vocabulary questions at the end of each section in mythology. They may even get to write one or two stories using only the draft and editing portions of the writing process. Each student will construct his/her very own Egyptian pyramid! Many will plod through books with a red dot, not caring about the book or even understanding it, just to get more points toward the independent reading requirement. They will read the social studies textbook, take notes by themselves and have graded quizzes over the material without learning anything. This is what waits just outside my classroom door.
Is it worth it?
Well, is it worth it to hear Jared say he had never read a book until now? Is it worth it to have Casey do homework for the first time? Is it worth it to listen to Amanda describe how her mother cried when she read, The Barn, by Avi out loud. Is it worth it to hear how Heather and her mother read Holes together in two nights at home? Is it worth it to watch Ethan say he has "no voice" and then insert five voice statements into his writing?
Yes. It is worth it! King Arthur gave his life for his belief of "might for right". Teachers must continue their fight for what is right despite all those outside forces. I will proceed. My students will write about topics that matter to them. They will choose books that capture their attention. And they'll determine where learning will take them. Ignoring outside forces I cannot control, I will proceed. It is worth it!
Nancy Zuercher, University of South Dakota, Vermillion
DWP's Poetry Day (and the E-Anthology)
Nancy Zuercher wrote her poem during a session with visiting poet Lee Ann Roripaugh; then, she posted her poem in the National Writing Project's E-Anthology, an online teachers' space for conversations about writing and the teaching of writing. Here is her poem, along with the responses that she received. --Ed.Posted on June 24, 2002 By Nancy Zuercher
Poetry Day at the Dakota Writing Project"Show, don't just tell, "says the guest poet,
Inviting us to write a poem that shows an abstract concept.
"And avoid a riddle poem."I want to show an abstraction in a poem.
I brainstorm through the list of thirty-seven abstractions the group generated.
I won't write a riddle poem, but what will I write?My mind asks for details as I go through the list,
Irritability? Fingernails scraping a chalkboard? Not.
Commitment? Pulling plastic bottles out of wastebaskets? Not.My mindscreen shows a bleak black blank--once, twice, thirty plus times.
My throat clutches:
Is the poem there?
A red circle indents the end of my middle finger:
Is the poem there?Everyone else is writing, pausing, writing--except me.
Marcia whispers to Jessica: do they have poems already?Michelle's pen, if it maintains its current pace, could win a 10K.
Mine awaits the starting gun.Lori, head in her right hand, reads silently,
Clutching a pen that periodically leaps to revise her poem.Sherri, obviously finished, explores a book called At a Writing Project.
I remember "The Exquisite Cadaver"--that exercise where writers compose a poem,
Then cross out seven words, then another seven, to reveal the poem's essence.
Subtracting words won't help me now. I can't remove words from nothing.Sue sips bottled water;
She could write thirty-seven poems if we had time.Lee Ann stretches and rises,
Grinning like a victorious gladiator.They all have poems.
Where, dear God, is mine?
Teachers' comments in the E-Anthology in response to Nancy's poem:
1. Pam Wensing, Dakota Writing Project:
Sometimes when the words don't seem to come, that IS the poem!!! Cool! Thanks for sharing!
2. Elizabeth Andert, Northwest Indiana W.P.:
This just makes me laugh. I'm a music teacher, but I do love to write.
We had a poetry day yesterday too, and I had the journal. I wrote a poem to define ours, and posted it on the "Day in the Life"... it's the NWIWP Journal for June 24. Mine was silly though, yours actually turned into a great poem!
I'm glad someone else struggles. Beth
3. Judy Leslie, Dakota W.P.:
Nancy, it was even better reading this on the screen than hearing it in class! Great imagery. I'm brave enough to try posting now. I'm enjoying this month of writing and collaborating. This shows you can extract something from what you thought was "nothing." Judy
4. Sonia Gensler, Oklahoma W.P.:
You've really captured a writer's anxiety -- the race imagery works really well! I also enjoyed your dilemma over subtracting something from nothing! I know a lot of people can identify with this, and I appreciate your self-effacing sense of humor about the situation. Now, tell me--did you do the "Exquisite Cadaver" exercise with your draft of this? (not that it needs it now, I just wondered if you got a chance to use it after all.)
I propose "Something from nothing" as a title -- or perhaps you could use a race metaphor of some kind.
I loved this! Thanks! Sonia
5. Peter Booth, NWP in Vermont:
Nancy, I know exactly what you're describing in this piece. Believe me, I've been there! (Haven't we all at one point or another?)
Reading your great descriptions of the work at your SI made me really long to be a part of that energy again. Enjoy your time. It passes quickly!
6. Shelbie Witte, Oklahoma W.P.:
I enjoyed reading this! You are very observant and the description with which you write helps me to visualize the SI and your writing exercise. Thanks for sharing. I love the ending line!!
Jessica Peterson, Sioux Valley High School, Volga
A Day in the DWP Institute
Information-literacy session helps teachers to understand challenges students face with the Internet
Jessica submitted an informal log of what occurred on June 11 during the DWP Institute, posting her log in the National Writing Project's E-Anthology in the "A Day in the Life" forum. Here is an excerpt of that log, highlighting a visit to I.D. Weeks Library and a session focusing on information literacy. --Ed.We tromped across campus to I.D. Weeks Library. USD librarian Carol Leibiger took us through a PowerPoint presentation entitled "Evaluating Online Resources." Here is some of what we learned:
The information Leibiger presented to us is available by going to http://www.usd.edu/library/assessment_gateway/ and clicking on "Web Evaluation." The sequential pages give an overview of the Internet, then evaluate its usefulness as a resource.
- Students tend to believe anything that's online.
- Seven million new pages go onto the Web everyday.
- Sixteen percent of the info. on the Net is accessed.
- When searching for educational resources, beware of using search engines whose addresses end in ".com." "Com" indicates "commercial," so many sites found will be biased based on sales.
- Good search engines are google.com (yes, despite the previous statement) and lii.org (Librarian's Index to the Internet).
- Caution: Most search engines rank sites based on the number of hits each site receives, not on its quality. If you unexpectedly discover a "bad" site and tell someone about it, his or her visit to that address moves the site up on the search ratings list. The closer it gets to the top of the list, the more likely students are to find it.
Judy Leslie, Sioux Falls Elementary, Unique Learning Experience (ULE) Gifted Program
Ebb and Flow
People have been taking the westward route across the United States for all of its history. Twenty-two years ago, I embarked on such a transition from Virginia Beach to South Dakota. Unencumbered by children or mortgage payments, my husband and I decided to point our two cars and two cats west, giving nary a thought to the implications of uprooting from my family, friends, and past. Whereas many of the explorers, settlers, and adventurers were never able to return to their homes, I have continued to go back once or twice every year. This experience has allowed me the perspective to see two distinct places through the eyes of one who has lived and loved them both.Before the decision to move, I had been to South Dakota only twice. On our honeymoon we had flown into Sioux Falls where I met his family for the first time. The Black Hills that August had won my heart even faster than the clean, quaint streets of downtown Sioux Falls. When we returned the following Christmas, I was treated to lutefisk, a favorite holiday tradition of his Norwegian family. Burping it all the way back to Virginia Beach, I knew I had encountered the first seafood that I'd never taste again! In spite of that culinary disaster, I still wanted to live in South Dakota.
I remember the moment during the move when the reality hit me head-on. Somewhere in Iowa, I looked over the wide-open expanses and began crying, "What have I done? Where am I going? What am I going to do?" What a major change from the screening, sheltering trees of Virginia! Because I had flown out here during the two vacations, I had never made the gradual transition from east of the Mississippi to the west. I felt frightened and alone seeing so much land and sky at once.
Within the year, we had started our beautiful family, the tears had dried, and we had made a life on the South Dakota plains. This land and these people became part of me. My present life in the Heartland has dropped deeper roots than I ever predicted possible. Now on the annual drive west back from the Eastern Seaboard, I often breathe a sigh of relief when I enter the vast open prairie, leaving the dense population and fast traffic behind. At that moment, I feel I am returning home. What had been threatening and lonely is now comforting and peaceful.Even so, I do get homesick for Virginia, especially during a five-month winter. Every summer, I cannot wait to get back and smell the ocean, breathe the humidity, eat fresh seafood, and see my family. Although I once thought I could not survive far from the ocean, I know that I can look forward to being near it for part of each year. I still feel the draw and pull like the surf ebbing and flowing rhythmically in my life.
The Atlantic's tides are in me and influence my view of the water when I am at my mother's house, my former home. I am not in awe as her yard's dimensions change twice a day when the river swells onto the ground and dock. It is so normal, so natural. However I am amazed when I realize that it occurs 350 days a year without me being there to observe it. The waters of the Tidewater area answer the daily pull of the moon, amplified in rare years when hurricanes or nor'easters head in that direction along the coast. This continual tidal effect is in dramatic contrast to the flow of the Big Sioux River, consistent in its rush along the Sioux Falls bike trail unless victim to drought or flood. Our waters are harbingers of environmental and climactic changes.
Each part of our nation has distinct characteristics that give it a face of its own. On the plains we see the amethyst and coral streaks from sky to land as an evening storm rolls in from the west. Here a dark blue, heavy sky means, "Look for the storm soon." At the Atlantic coast, that same hue denotes a beautiful day to swim and sail. Although weather is changeable in both places, becoming violent and calm in rapid succession, the seasons are more distinct and severe this far away from the moderating influence of the ocean winds. And whereas devastation is possible near the coast, it is rare compared to the annual ravages of wind, water, storm, and drought on this vast open land.
The prairie has come to be as dear to me as the ocean. The pulse of life in the fields and skies of South Dakota is every bit as changing and dramatic as the swell and roar of the Atlantic. Both of my homes are abundant with nature's bounty. Birdcalls on the plains are meadowlarks, not seagulls. Corn and soybeans meet the eye rather than sea oats and sand dunes. I see the ripples of the wind-whipped fields and compare them to the waves. No salty, sandy air hits the face on the rolling lands of East River, but the "smell of money" joins the musty, earthy smell of my garden. The land changes as constantly and surely as the ocean.
The power and magnitude of life is as apparent under the fields of South Dakota as under the sea. Life is teeming underneath our feet. Anyone who has stepped on a sharp, hidden sea animal or tried to coax a vegetable garden away from the grasp of Creeping Jenny can attest to the proof of magnificent, unseen life. I count my blessings that I have done both. I have loved land and sea. I hope I continue to fully appreciate and enjoy what my two, different homelands have to offer.
Sue Morrell, Wagner High School
Drought
Near my home next to cedars
the earth develops its summer skin
gumbo bakes and cracks, small fissures
map my yard and refuse to close
even after a sudden soaking thunderstorm.
The ground gapes, perpetually open-mouthed.
Walking this earth, my feet feel what my winter hands know--
the deep red slashes in calloused skin that beat
in painful rhythms all the cold night long.When prairie earth speaks in July,
its voice is rough ? the whisper
of an old, wizened drunk two days after a binge,
rubbing an aching brow with dirt-crusted fingers,
swearing "never again."Tonight I'll hook the soaker hoses, one by one, to the spigot,
set the timer on my old stove for thirty minutes,
traipse through dry-skinned toads,
try to tame this thirsty ground.Distant thunder will tease
faint lightning glow over the border, in Nebraska.But this is a dry year.
The wind will blow
all night long.
Two poems by Twyla Spiry, McLaughlin Elementary, Standing Rock Reservation
The Sunflower
Tall and strong
Drought resistant
Smiling sunshine
Never showing doubt
The sunflower standsPerfect, yet heavy with its own beauty
Unable to bend with the wind
Fragile to infestation and open to robbery
Its beauty quickly fading
Living and dying in but one season
The sunflower standsDried, broken, brown
Head bent in regret
Void of beauty
Left for the picking
The sunflower standsStill full of promise
Offering life through death
Seeds scattered by the wind or
Harvested in the fall
No longer does the sunflower stand.
Prairie Garden
I planted a garden in the prairie.
A jewel, an oasis in the desert.
So many souls and I thirsting
Begging and dreaming of homeHow could this be where I belong?
Opportunity, the flyers claimed.
Land of milk and honey.
Where are they? I don't see their families
Lost in this sea of rolling grass.The howling -- how I wish it would quit.
All day it moans its song.
My hair whips against my face.
It reminds me, as my face becomes numb,
This is now home.I planted a garden; it reminded me of home.
The flowers wilted; the hail harvested my crop.
Winter came and I planned a garden
To plant in the prairie next spring.
Lee Ann Overbay, Mitchell Technical Institute
Let Me Be
Hovering over the gaping hole
I inhale the darkness and deliberately
Slide into the abyss.The cavern swallows me and
With the swallowing my everyday soul
and I separate.In the gloom my laborious gait slows;
I linger.
Not yet ready to regurgitate the
repugnancy.Don't call down to me.
I reach for the edge when I decide.
Now I submerge me in the
beckoning blackness.
Sue Morrell, Wagner High School
Zinnias
(My Grandmother Speaks to Me)The zinnias are ready to bloom
in your garden, I see.
I loved them, too.
Jaunty bits of color on sturdy stems,
slow to fade.
Be careful how you water them:
white fungus destroys their color.The zinnias were ready to bloom
in my garden, too, that fall.
And then I found the cyst.
Cancer, the doctors said.
Not fungus.
A cancer to be cut out.Before I went to the hospital
I cut enough zinnias for one glass vase,
centered it on the dining room table
in my quiet house
The flowers sang their colors to the muted walls.Two weeks later, when they sent me home,
the zinnias sprawled like drunken floozies
over the sides of the glass.
But I could not pick up the vase
to throw the flowers away:
my left arm limp at my side,
my right arm too sad.The faded blooms sat on the table
for two more weeks. Their color
turned as ashen
as my face in the mirror.Let me tell you something you should know:
you need to know
how grandmothers sit with hope
drooping in vases on dining room tables,
how the walls echo colors and silence
and pain.
Judy Leslie, Sioux Falls Elementary, Unique Learning Experience (ULE) Gifted Program
Red soil and hairy spiders
Some lessons stick with us forever because of their power. As a little girl, I had such a learning experience while visiting my grandparents. Their farmhouse in the mountains of North Carolina had been the birthplace of my father and his ten older siblings in the early 20th century. The simple life on this Appalachian farm still continued much as it had for a hundred years.My grandparents were quiet, hardworking octogenarians by the time I was old enough to be aware of them. I could not understand my grandfather very well because he talked softly and hoarsely. As he was also hard-of-hearing, I learned early on that he would not comprehend much of what I said with my Virginia accent and childish voice. I mostly only saw him as a bent, frail old man at the long, oilcloth-covered kitchen table during meals. Otherwise, he was in the fields, and I was romping around the hilly, red clay farmyard. I can't remember him addressing me directly or anything he ever said, at the table or otherwise.
One summer day in the mid-1950's, my cousins, sisters, and I were playing on the slope that dropped down to the red gravel road in front of the house. Few cars passed by, but each driver waved. I had never seen anything like that in the cities of Virginia, so I thought it was purely amazing that everyone knew each other out in the country. This particular morning was steamy hot, and we were poking sticks into all the red dusty holes in the slope. It wasn't a very high slope leading from the road up to the grassy yard, but it was taller than our heads when we were at gravel level.
Suddenly, a hairy spider as big as a silver dollar scampered out of one of the holes and up a cousin's stick. We squealed and screeched and ran toward the house. Over dinner, all we could talk about was the black widow that had attacked us and how scared we had been. Daddy said it couldn't have been a black widow if it was big and hairy.
"Uh huh," all the girls argued.
"No," said my uncle, "It was definitely not a black widow."
We all looked disbelievingly at him. Don't these men know anything?
Finally, the older generation decided they had tried long enough to convince these little girls of the fallacy in their thinking. Uncle Lewis looked up and said, "Papa, how big is a black widow?"
Grandpa didn't look up from his plate. He picked up his bread knife and scooped one kernel of corn onto the knife blade. Slowly and shakily, he held it up without a word, and then went back to eating.
Pam Wensing, Joe Foss High School, Sioux Falls
Lava
I am a small girl with large, inquisitive brown eyes.
My dad has just gotten home.
I hear his heavy boots hit the linoleum porch floor.
I abandon my Barbie on the living room floor to find my dad.
He is standing where he always stands after work,
in front of our small, pink, porcelain bathroom sink.
With his blue work shirt rolled to mid arm,
he is washing away the stain of a mechanic's labor,
working the grainy bar of Lava around in his large hands,
the soap turning sudsy and dark from the grease of his toil.
His hands look so large over the small sink.
As I stand on one foot, leaning on the sink,
brown eyes watching my dad, we converse.
"Did you fix bunches of cars, Daddy?"
"A few."
"How did you fix them?" I tease.
"With LOTS of grease!" he winks,
his soft, gray eyes dancing with mischief.
Then, he brings those large, darkly soaped hands
over the edge of the sink towards me.
His "gonna get ya" growl sends me squealing down the hall.
I can hear his low laughter following me from the other room.
My dad is home, and I am glad.
Marcia Votaw, Roosevelt High School, Sioux Falls
Emerald-Eyed
The dragon camps on their doorstep,
long tail possessing the house.
Inside, the man's fiery eyes
slide over her packing movements.
He hisses a sharp question,
she answers with an enigmatic smile.
Tense and edgy, he crouches next to the table,
smoky breath curling and entwining the two of them.
She steps outside the circle of his anger,
carrying her calmness like a shield.
The scaly monster enfolds her stiff reserve
and strives to hold it fast.
She closes the door quietly.
Hunkering down, the dragon impatiently awaits her return.
Debra Harrison, Stanley County H.S., Fort Pierre
Lessons learned at DWP
Attending the Dakota Writing Project Summer Institute at USD was something that I had looked forward to for weeks. It had been decided that my girls would go to their dad's for that long overdue vacation while I had some time for education and freedom. After crazy days and nights of sharing life continually with teenagers, in the classroom and at home, it seemed that days filled with adult academia and peaceful nights of quiet and reflection would be welcome. How many nights had I dreamed of quiet when the girls were fighting in the other room? After hearing "MOM!" for the forty-thousandth time, I was convinced that four weeks of solitude would be a dream come true.Originally, I had come to the DWP Summer Institute looking forward to time for writing and networking with other teachers. I was thrilled at the prospect of discovering what others in my field were doing in their classrooms and what their approaches to teaching writing were. As the institute progressed, however, time took on new meaning.
Writing time and the variety of writing prompts we were given brought to the forefront of my mind a wealth of issues and memories long forgotten. Sitting in that classroom writing away led me to think of important events in my life. One of those events was the act of leaving home, not just for a visit to a distant relative or a brief vacation, but really leaving home and venturing out on my own.
Growing up, I had never been never far from home for any length of time. It was devastating when I left my parents for the first time. The scene is still vivid in my memory. I looked up at my dad. There he stood with tears in his eyes. He declared, "Do you know how proud of you I am?" The sense of loss and the understanding that things would never be the same were overwhelming and heartbreaking.
Now, cleverly disguised as peace and solitude, the loneliness seeps from every pore of the quiet dorm room. As I sit here reflecting on the future, I am able to get a taste of times to come. I realize how important the time is that I have left with my daughters. In three years, my oldest child will head out the door to chart her own destiny, leaving me behind to miss the chaos. In five years, my youngest will leave to discover a vast world beyond what I can offer.
As the institute comes to a close, I am anticipating having the girls home with me again. Soon after their return, I am sure that I will once again be longing for the peace and solitude of Brookman Hall. But in the background will be that shadow of the lesson learned while here, the lesson about what is to come in the not-too-distant future.
Sue Morrell, Wagner High School
Conversations at DWP
Remember family gatherings as a kid? After everyone's appetite was sated, while Grandma was plying everyone with yet another dessert, someone in the group would begin telling stories. Grandpa told skunk stories. Aunt Denise told State Fair stories. Uncle Jed told "the time it hailed so hard the stones killed the chickens" stories. Great stories!
What magic those stories held!
As we brought our summer institute to a close, the topic of talk (conversations, stories) came to the forefront. One morning's prompt was to write about what we would take with us into our writing and teaching lives. As we went around the sharing circle, almost everyone mentioned camaraderie, collegiality and conversation. Marcia Votaw, who admitted to us that she loves to talk, asked, "Is that so unusual? Are we that different? Do we talk a lot?"
In a word, yes. This was the most conversant group of all my summer institute experiences. Chatty? Yes. Talkative? Yes. Fast-paced? Certainly. But I would say that conversation and story-telling really defined this group. Conversation sprinkled confectioner's sugar on our academic, theory-grounded, inquiry-based cakes.
We always talked before we did our "Writing into the Day." In fact, it was often 10 or 15 minutes before silence stole into the classroom--everyone had so much to say, even if we'd spent most of the previous day together.
We talked after every demonstration: what would we modify for our purposes? How could the presenter adapt to different audiences? Often those conversations took side trails into other classroom practices and experiences. We brought up many more questions than we could possibly answer.
We centered our literature circles around talk about what we were reading, talk about theory and practice, talk about our students, colleagues, and administrators. By the end of four weeks, we had the full flavor of nearly everyone's classroom, home, family atmosphere, and community. And what we didn't know we simply hadn't had time to talk through yet!
In all that dialogue, we began to really care about each other's lives and gifts. We were amazed by LeeAnn's organization, by Sherri's boundless energy, by Pam's laughter, by Judy's limbo-like plight in a school bent on cutting programs. David helped us to tell ridiculously funny fairy tales, many of which connected to stories we told at Marcia's barbecue feast the evening before.
Twyla's stories helped us to see second graders' perspectives in a multi-cultural and isolated setting. Lori told crisp, cutting stories pulled from metaphors--glimpses of Camelot, fifth graders and resistant colleagues. Deb shared her daughters. Nancy shared her grandson. We all shared in Jessica's new romantic interest. We learned so much--I guess you'd say we exhausted the affective side of teaching and learning in a personal and meaningful way.
So, yes, we were a noisy group. But, oh, the value of those stories. We'll always remember the feast of conversation at our story-telling table at DWP.
Print out and view the DWP 2002 Summer Newsletter
View the 2002 summer issue of the DWP newsletter as an Adobe Acrobat document (printable on 8-1/2"x 11" paper). You will need the Adobe Acrobat Reader in order to view it. For easy downloading, it is available in four parts:
Part 1 (pages 1-4)
Part 2 (pages 5-8)
Part 3 (pages 9-12)
Part 4 (pages 13-16)
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