The Literate Teacher's Manifesto

Well, it's the last day of March. The second day of spring break. The end of a month of being gone every single weekend. And the last day of the Slice of Life Challenge. I can't say that I met the challenge, because I didn't slice every single day. But I'm counting this as more win than not. Even though I missed some days, I kept coming back. I didn't let it defeat me, unlike when I miss a day of eating healthy and the next day inhale a whole bag of trail mix. Or when I miss a day of running and use that as an excuse to stop for three months. Or when I procrastinate on putting feedback on student papers and leave them sitting until... well, you get the point. I tend to be a quitter when I fail to meet a challenge, but that was one part of the agreement I made with myself when I decided to slice this year. No quitting, even if you miss a day. I learned a lot this month. I learned that I have something to say, almost every single day, and that if I force myself

Today was an early release day. Spring break begins tomorrow, and it is a beautiful, sunny, 75-degree North Carolina spring day outside. Everything seemed great to kick off an awesome break. But, ick, we had to have a faculty meeting after the kids were released. (Mostly, our faculty meetings are not terrible. They're pretty short and basic. I just have a bad attitude because of the topic of the rest of this piece.) One of my goals for this year was a classroom revamp. I spent last summer scouring yard sales, refinishing furniture, and asking for donations from local businesses, and by the beginning of this year, my classroom was a brand new place. No desks, no typical school furniture. It is beautiful. My room is a welcoming haven. My kids love having the opportunity to spread out and be comfortable. It's where we have grade level and team meetings; even my committee (which is cross grade level) meets in my room. And it's been a successful learning environment for all

      Vincent's Chair The chair in the green room sits empty. Its wicker seat is scattered with pipe ashes and spilled tobacco. The stone floor is silent, waiting for the resounding steps of the flame-bearded artist with bandaged ear. His pipe sits cold and smokeless. Tobacco waiting to be packed, lighted, inhaled, into the world of genius. The pipe, the chair, the woodbox-- in tedious anticipation. Needing the fire of his soul to fill these empty spaces.

I've been at the beach for four days. My brain and body are on beach time. It doesn't feel like a Monday night. My whole existence for the past several days has been one continuous Jimmy Buffett song... sandy toes and 5 o'clock all day! I was so timelessly floating that it didn't really occur to me until this afternoon as I was preparing to come home that I only have two and a half days until spring break (more beach time)! So as I drove home by myself for the four hours between the beach and my house, I was mentally attempting to prepare. I need to be back in school mode tomorrow. My kids have a big project they've been working on (the We Didn't Start the Fire project I wrote about on Day 16 . Updates coming soon...). Grade conferences will be tomorrow and Wednesday. Grades are due right after break. So there's a lot riding on my mindset! I can't keep drifting away to Margaritaville! I was psyching myself up by thinking about the emails I receiv

I missed another day yesterday. That's all I got. I came to the beach, and instead of sequestering myself to write and comment, I chose to hang out with my family.  Today was a good day; Duke got beat. I will never have to hear Grayson Allen's name again, but I will miss posting memes to Facebook to make fun of him. Right now, I am listening to my son and my nephew giggle over silly things they are watching on Youtube while my husband and I smile at each other across the table. It's hard to put a price on that, but it's worth missing a writing day. I also drank several glasses of wine and ate some ice cream cake (which might explain the quality of this writing). In spite of myself, I wrote something. And that's better than nothing.

(I stole this slice idea from Molly Hogan ... unwelcome visitors make for great stories.) Our house is in the middle of three cornfields, so every year when the fields get combined, lots of furry residents suddenly lose their homes and are searching for a replacement. Our house is centrally located, with convenient access from all points! (This was NOT a selling point when we bought it, just a happy little discovery we made afterward!) In 2006, we were having a lot of visitors. At least two every day. I am a pacifist, an animal lover, and a fairly squeamish person, so I bought the "humane" traps. The ones designed to catch, but not kill. My husband was less excited about these than I was, since he was the one who had to empty the traps. I know it is ridiculous, as I am roughly 320x's the size of a mouse, but I am terrified of them and will refuse to deal with them, trapped or not. I will stand on anything to avoid the possibility one might jump out at me or run a

I was driving all evening. Back to the beach. As the sun went down and I ran out of podcasts to listen to, I tried to find some music. When I stopped to fill up with gas, I put in one of my Beatles CD's, and some Simon and Garfunkel. Unfortunately, the tree pollen has been so kind as to gift me with laryngitis. So I can't sing along. As it turns out, Simon and Garfunkel are pretty soporific when you can't sing along. As the white lines blurred and the dark highway stretched ahead of me, I knew I was in for a long drive. Even though I only had 24 miles to go before I reached my exit, it was far enough that I was stressing. My head was bobbing and my eyes were weary. All I could think of was the bed waiting for me at the condo. Finally, I decided the best plan would be to scan the radio stations. And it turns out, you can keep yourself awake by clapping enthusiastically along to Ed Sheeran's In Love With the Shape of You . Thank goodness it was dark.

I was so proud of myself. Here I was, nineteen days in, and I had only missed one day! One! I didn't imagine I would ever find this many things to write about! But the farther I got into the challenge, the more it seemed like I started to notice. I would think of slice possibilities in the shower, eating dinner, during class changes, driving to work in the morning... And then, stuck. When I sat down to write yesterday, my brain just crossed its arms, stuck its lip out, and stalwartly muttered, "No. Not gonna do it. Not tonight." I tried. I reasoned. I pleaded. I read mentor texts. I read other people's slices. I skimmed my writing notebook. I wrote a sentence. Then deleted it. Cleaned the kitchen. Put in a load of laundry. Folded towels. Back to the computer. Wrote a sentence. Then deleted it. Ate pizza. Read a chapter of my book. Checked my email. Blank screen. Got on Facebook. Blank screen. Watched television. Blank screen. So when I was still stari

Wind ripples wheat into golden brown whipping cream; stalks bend and sway in the summer sun for the worship of his artistry. Sky kisses the cedars and swirls into the face of a red-haired god enthroned (for purple mountain's majesty). Throwing his ear toward the heavens, He laughs as the rain starts to fall.

I am elbows deep in a bucket of trail mix. Stress eating was always a problem for me. My throat is sore. The seat cushions around me are battered from me punching them, and my poor phone is lying on the floor where I threw it during one particularly violent moment. I am a serene person! How did it come to this?  Two years ago at this time, I was blissfully reading books and piddling around online. No red face, no screaming, no heart palpitations, no stress eating. Why would any sane person subject themselves to this kind of stress?  Because March Madness, that's why. Last year, we went with some friends of ours to Chapel Hill to watch the Tar Heels play NC State. It was a total blowout game (Heels won 107-56), and we had a blast. And the obsession began. We watched every game left in the regular season, and by the time the ACC tournament rolled around, we had turned into people who go to sports bars to watch games.   And it was totally worth it! Last year, the He

On this day, I will stretch lazily as I wake up without an alarm. I will drink three cups of coffee. I will finish a book (or three). I will scratch my dog behind his ears and feed him treats. I will watch the sunlight stretch across the sky from the chair in my living room. I will read blog posts and articles that I bookmarked this week. I will watch Grey's Anatomy and basketball. I will walk outside, barefoot. I will wear stretchy pants, all day long. I will write in my notebook. I will enjoy silence. I will not be hurried. I will not be irritable. I will not care that the sun's passage marks the day's end. I will not wear makeup, or shoes, or uncomfortable pants. I will not hear noisy teenagers. I will not speak, much. I will not be unproductive, though it may seem to some that I am. I will not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring its own troubles. This day, this time is enough.

We were starting a new lesson today based on Billy Joel's We Didn't Start the Fire . (I have to give props for this lesson to  Just Thinking blog , where I found this awesome idea.) We are using the song as a jumping off point for research about events that changed the direction of culture. To introduce it, I had the students take out a piece of paper and pen, told them I was going to play a song, and they had to write down as many of the lyrics as possible. They were all hunched over their papers, prepared, their eager faces staring at me, waiting for the challenge. As the opening notes of the song sounded, they put their pens to paper and waited anxiously. And then the lyrics started. Harry Truman, Doris Day, Red China, Johnnie Ray ... A few brave souls timidly wrote down a  line or two. Most looked at me like this:       I dissolved into laughter first, then told them to just listen carefully. Eventually it'll start to make sense. By the time we got to JFK