Maybe They're Writing Poetry

As a life-long English teacher, one might think that I would have a cherished collection of stories to share about the English teachers in my past who inspired me, pushed me to do better, and guided me on this path. The truth, however, is that I have memories of past English teachers, first in middle school, then in high school, who actually chose to put barriers in my way. I keep these memories in my back pocket, not out of resentment or spite, but because they inspired me to be better.

I first fell in love with reading at the age of 8. My family was on a cross-country road trip, and because it was the 1980s, I rolled around in the back of my dad's pickup truck all the way from Phoenix to Washington, D.C. (There was a camper shell ensuring I didn't leap to my demise--we weren't animals.) I read E.B. White's classic children's novel, Charlotte's Web, for the first of a dozen times on that trip. It was the first time I felt the now-familiar butterflies of awe and magic that still wash over me to this day when I read something beautiful. From that point on, I became a voracious reader--my mom would literally hide my books to get me to do my chores--and I soon took up the mighty pen to capture the delight and the agony of youth in poetry.

By the time I entered middle school, I frequently sat in the back of my classes reading and writing. I'd quickly complete the day's assignments, then retreat once again into my own world. Thanks to excellent test scores, I took honors English in middle school, and I earned good marks. Despite this, my 8th-grade English teacher recommended I not carry on with advanced English classes in high school due to my inattentiveness. It's funny to me that what I was actually doing in her class was carrying on a love affair with the written word, but she made a different assumption about me.

I began Freshman English at Independence High School in 1992. I was bored out of my everloving mind. I hated. that. class. The teacher advised me that I should speak to the department head, Ms. Lipscomb, and ask to take a placement test for the honors and AP track. Though the prospect of having this conversation terrified me, I did it anyway, and she gave me a date to come by after school to take the test. The week of the test, the advisor for the (VHS!) video yearbook informed me that we had a deadline to meet and that I absolutely could NOT take an afternoon off--not even for a placement test. Trapped between two competing authorities, I went back to Ms. Lipscomb to ask if we could reschedule. She said no. It was now or never. 

I decided that meant never.

I mean, that was so worth it, right? Thirty years later, I just know everyone still cherishes their fuzzy VHS memories of the 1992-1993 school year.

Needless to say, I continued to languish in English classes for the rest of my time in high school. I also traded in my books and poetry for the lofty pursuits of making signs and balloon arches for StuCo and convincing people to give me a lift to Taco Bell for the 59, 79, 99-cent menu.

Four years of middling English classes later, during my senior year, I found myself as Ms. Lippy's--yes, the very same Ms. Lipscomb's--student. Oh, how she loathed that class… but she liked me. I sat in the first seat of the first row (as I did in all my classes with a last name like Akers), so we'd talk sometimes about current events. She was also the first of my English teachers to require that I read a novel. I chose Wuthering Heights. I was hesitant when I started reading it, discouraged by the language that felt stuffy to me, but soon the book swept me away in a flurry of those old familiar butterflies and magic. I devoured it, and came to class ready to talk her ear off about what I suspected the moors might symbolize and the role that nature played in the story.

I remember so clearly that she looked up from her desk, smiled, and said, you, my dear, should have been in Honors English.

Womp womp.

When I started my own teaching career as a high school English teacher, I returned to these two memories at least once a semester. I could see that both teachers, instead of nurturing a big nerd into an even bigger nerd, chose to make assumptions about me and what I was capable of. They were wrong about me. What a gift!

When I was the honors English teacher, every semester, someone would come to me with a paper slip in hand, nervously asking if they could "bump" into my class. And every time, I clicked my pen, smiled, and welcomed them to class as I signed the form.

Did all of them succeed? No. But I rest easy knowing I never closed the door on anyone's chance to see what they are capable of.

Here at GCC, I don't make choices about who can take what course, but I do continue to check my assumptions about my students. The student in the back who looks like they are fiddling with their phone--maybe that student doesn't care. But maybe they are writing poetry?

The Gradebook Is Fine. Everything Is Fine. (It's Not Fine.)

For years, I have had this nagging feeling that my gradebook, filled with hundreds of scores at the end of the semester, is serving neither me nor my students. What's the difference between a 92% and an 88%? Does that parade of assignments support student learning? Would they learn less if I asked them to click fewer buttons? Am I offering the best feedback when I am always underwater with my grading?

*dramatic sigh*

I long to step away from… whatever this is… and shift to something that feels simpler and more honoring of how humans learn. But the questions felt too big to sit with alone — so I didn't.

In response to this feeling of dis-ease with my current grading practices, I invited a few colleagues to join me in exploring the pros and cons of the most common approaches to alternative grading. In our first few meetings, it became clear that we are all a little frustrated with our current grading practices, which can feel, at times, like they are sucking the life out of us (and the joy out of teaching). As we talked about what brought us together, even more questions arose about how alternative grading could work in our classes (in addition to a healthy dose of skepticism).

Here are some of the questions that arose in our discussions:

• Would alt grading impact how we meet the requirement of a three-hour course having six hours of work outside of class?

• Would something like portfolio grading just push the work of grading to the end of the semester?

• How might alternative grading impact grade inflation?

• Can alternative grading increase transparency? Or would it make grades more foggy?

• We need to be certain that our students meet our course competencies and are prepared for the next course in the sequence (for example, ENG 101 moving to ENG 102). Which alternative grading practices best address this?

As I write this, I do not have the answers to these questions. We've each chosen one or two strategies to dig into, and in future meetings, we will share what we learn in service of addressing these questions.

I am going to dig into portfolio-based grading (paired with minimum standards for accepted work). To me, this feels like the most natural fit for a writing class. Instead of assigning a grade to each piece of work as it comes in, students collect their work over the course of the semester and are assessed on the whole body of it at the end, often alongside a reflection on their growth.

What draws me to this is that it mirrors how writers actually work. Mature writers don't finish a first draft and call it done. Writing is recursive — you circle back, you revise, you see things differently after some distance. A portfolio supports this cycle of writing.

I am also drawn to the reflection component of this approach. Students have to look back at what they produced and articulate what changed and why--they have to articulate how they’ve grown as writers.

Our PLC's other participants are exploring standards-based and mastery-based grading, specs and labor-based grading, contract-based grading, and equitable grading. I am eager to learn from their discoveries! If you want to know how this all unfolds, you are a) welcome to join our group! We meet every other Tuesday morning at 10:00 AM (reach out to me for more info), or b) watch for my follow-up posts on the CTLE blog!

UDL: An Undeniably Delightful Learning Space

In recent years, I've been learning more about Universal Design for Learning. At the heart of UDL lies student engagement, flexibility, and choice. As I learn more about all the ways I can use the principles of UDL to strengthen my courses, I admit I also find myself indulging in a little daydream about my perfect classroom. Currently, I teach in the LA building. It's a little dingy and the fluorescent overhead lights might steal a little bit of my soul every day that I stand beneath them, but the rooms have desks with wheels, so that's cool. However, I dream of a classroom that is bright, welcoming and flexible: UDL IRL.

iStock: Varijanta

Let me paint a picture for you of my dream classroom. And, this is my dream, so I reserve the right to go nuts.

First, the room would be large, and not overly crowded with furniture. It may sound elementary (pun intended for a college blog...), but when my students enter the space, there would be space for them to store their massive backpacks that hinder movement around the space and that we (I) frequently trip over. Next to that storage area, I'd have a coffee, tea, and snacks to welcome students. I would encourage them to take a break from their cell phones and get cozy in the learning space.

Around the room, I dream of windows, so many windows, cut high into each wall to let in lots of natural light. Somehow, working in perfect harmony with all the windows, multiple screens would hang around the room allowing everyone to see the day's slides without squinting. Each wall would also be lined with whiteboards for gallery walks and standing group work. I'd make the room feel a little cozy with an area rug and some lo-fi music in the background.

In the learning space, I envision tables that roll so that I can divide them for small-group work, line them up when it's time for notes, push them into long rows for class discussions, or move them entirely out of the way for Socratic seminars. Again, since this is my dream, I am going to go nuts: I'd mix in some other seating options like beanbag chairs and stools, maybe even a few standing desk options along one side of the room. I'd have ChromeBooks in the room that we'd pull out only when polishing our final drafts—no stationary computers hiding everyone's faces and making it hard to connect with one another. This magical room would also never run out of whiteboard markers and the instructor's computer would never freeze or crash.

When class ends, I imagine a Free Little Library awaiting students just outside the door, and maybe a Pharmacy of Poems, offering art for whatever ails the student heart or mind.

My dream room would communicate to students that, not only are they welcome there, but that the space was made for them and their scholarship. It would be designed for our community, and it would be ready for whatever adventures in writing and thinking we could conjure up.

We don't have to wait to hear from DRS

If you drop by my house on any given day, it is equally likely that you'll be pinned to a chair while someone lovingly infodumps on you about their latest special interest (like Severance, or lasagna gardening) as it is likely that you'll have to watch one or more of us search wildly for some lost possession (car keys, a left shoe, that one top that will complete an emergency pirate costume). We are all what the internet affectionately calls neurospicy.  My daughter was diagnosed with ADHD around 4th grade, but didn’t experience the cheat code of medication until high school. My son was diagnosed with autism also around 4th grade. I clued in and got my own ADHD diagnosis in my 40s, and my husband’s spiciness is... “peer reviewed.”

Why am I sharing this? Well, this means that each of us, at one time or another, stumbled our way through the world of education without support for our neurodivergence. I know that each of us wondered what is wrong with me? and why can I just _______?! Here at GCC, our DRS team does so much behind the scenes to support our students, but the story I want to shine a light on is that of our students who, for one reason or another, are living with an undiagnosed neurodiversity. 

According to the American College Health Association (2024), around 3% of college students report that they have an autism diagnosis, around 15% of students report an ADHD diagnosis, around fewer than 3% of students report a learning disability. When those students bring documentation of their hidden disability to DRS, they are able to receive support to make their learning experience equitable with students who do not live with a disability. Sounds simple, right? Get a diagnosis, get support!

However, here's an un-fun fact: a typical diagnosis will cost a family between $1,500 and $3,000 dollars? Many of our students simply cannot pull together that kind of money to identify (or rule out!) a hidden disability. Another barrier that impacts whether a student may seek an official diagnosis is, simply, a lack of awareness about ADHD and Autism and how they can present differently from one person to another. Autism and ADHD also have very commonly run in families (eh hem, see my intro paragraph). It is common for a parent to see a child struggling in a similar way to how they struggled in school and assume that struggle is normal and fine. (“Oh, you can’t focus on math and your backpack looks like the inside of a trash compactor? Totally normal!”)   

We all have neurodiverse students in our classrooms who have not qualified for support through DRS. Without access to accommodations that create an equitable educational experience, many will earn poor grades and some may withdraw from their classes. Some undiagnosed learners wrestle with immense anxiety and depression causing them to disappear from our rosters. So what can we as classroom instructors do to meet the needs of all students, regardless of whether or not they have a formal diagnosis? 

Here are a few tips to consider:

1. In the first week of school, ask students two questions: First, what barriers do they foresee that might impact their ability to be successful in your class? (This question helps us understand a lot of things about a student—do they work? Do they work two jobs? Kids? Ailing family member? Unreliable transportation? No computer at home?) Next, what have instructors done in the past to support them? Here’s where you may see hints of undiagnosed neurodivergence. Students often say a clear agenda and fixed due dates helps them, or a grace period with a due date, one on one help helps them, the ability to handwrite their work or, alternatively, type their notes. The need for headphones in class.
2. Can you find spaces in your pedagogy to allow a little flexibility? I have a consistent but very generous late-work policy. I accept all late work for one week after the due date for 10% off. After that, the assignment closes, and I no longer offer points, but I do offer feedback if the student comes to see me during support hours.
3. Get to know each student as an individual  as much as possible.Getting to know each student’s life circumstances, their strengths and their struggles allows me to offer each student the support they need.
4. Share tips and tricks for focus (like the Pomodoro method, Lo-fi YouTube channels, Binaural Beats, focus apps, time boxing) and continually remind students of our campus resources including tutoring and basic needs support.
5. Finally, a reliable class structure helps all students. In my ENG 101 classes, assignments are always due on Tuesdays and Thursdays and writing assignments are due on Sundays. Each week, they have assignments that fall under the categories of “read”, “learn,” then “apply.” I give a clear agenda at the beginning of each class and end every class with a closure activity and the opportunity to ask questions out loud or on their ticket out the door. This consistent structure reduces anxiety for neurodiverse learners and traditional learners alike.

I view myself as a coach rather than a 'sage on the stage.' My job is not to get every student to perform at a certain level, but to unlock potential in each student and help each student grow as a scholar. This approach helps me do my best not to lose a student because of an undiagnosed disability. 

Simply put, we don’t have to wait for the email from DRS to help a student who is struggling.

Finding My Place Between Bradbury and the Bots

In a blog post for Write 6x6 in February of 2024, I wrote, “As the future of AI in education breathes down my neck, I find myself wondering, do I want to be a Bradbury, digging in my heels in respect for my deeply-held principles about teaching, learning, and the craft of writing, knowing that my protest will do nothing to change what’s to come? Do I want to give in and say there's nothing I can do to stop what's coming, so let me grade this robot’s essay? Or might there be a space in between?”

Another Write 6x6 is upon us, and I see that my relationship to AI has clarified itself in the last two years. Yes, AI has changed education, and I have had no choice but to change with it. I worry less about AI heralding the end of original thought these days. (Note, I worry less, not none.) My colleagues and I teach students intellectual ethical strategies for using AI as a learning partner. My classes lean more heavily on questioning and dialoguing and journaling on paper where once I was handing out chromebooks and using online polling tools. At home, my husband and I chop veggies and stir pots as we prepare dinner all the while marveling at all the ways we used Claude.ai that day. Jeff uses Claude as a coding partner in his work, and I use Claude as a revision partner. (In fact, I used to joke that we were in a throuple with Claude until I realized this isn’t a joke for some people.)

I appreciate that I can take a real woofer of a writing piece, full of [place holders], unfinished paragraphs, and clunky sentences–something I would never allow a colleague to read–and get nonjudgemental advice from Claude. I don’t ask the tool to write for me, rather I ask questions like, “My sentences are clunky in paragraph 3. What advice do you have for me?” or “What are some ideas you can offer me for bringing this piece to a close,” or “Give me a list of places where my thinking is unclear as well as a list of punctuation and grammar errors.” I find it priceless to get advice at this messy stage of the writing process before I’ve belabored the piece and exhausted myself. Asking for advice rather than asking for revision also allows me to maintain my own voice, for better or worse.

Back in November, I began working with Claude as a writing and thinking partner to craft this year’s Write 6x6 challenge. I pay for Claude which allows me access to a few more features such as creating project spaces. (Paying for Claude also makes the “throuple” joke even more awful.) After I created the Write 6x6 Challenge project, I provided Claude with instructions explaining Write 6x6 and my goals for our work together. Next, I uploaded files listing the prompts from years past. I also created a very long document listing recent topics discussed on the podcast Teaching in Higher Ed and titles of workshops offered at this fall’s POD Conference. From this document, I asked Claude to do something he does very well, but that would take me much, much longer: synthesize. Claude identified trending topics of discourse in higher education today, and from that list, I crafted a collection of possible prompts. Claude helped me to refine the list, to create “dares” to accompany this year’s “truth” prompts, and helped me track down resources to accompany each week’s challenge. I continued to chat with Claude about the prompt list, the challenges, and the resources until just a few weeks ago. (A human colleague would have kindly asked me to shut up about it already long ago.)

I declare that I am pleased with this year’s prompts! I feel that the topics are timely and that the Truth or Dare challenge has a little something for everyone. I hope that you, too, will enjoy what Write 6x6 has in store for you this year!


If you hate the prompts, let’s just blame Claude.

Humming along through this season of life: A Playlist for 2025

Like most of us on campus, I play the part of several different people on any given day.

I start my day tending to kids and pets, kissing my spouse on his way out the door, ticking off items on a mental checklist of what the kids and I will need throughout the day before beginning a convoluted morning commute. I arrive on campus feeling energized (or stir-crazy after a long drive). I sit at my desk and fine-tune my lessons before heading to LA 105 for a long day teaching composition to often reluctant writers. On shorter teaching days, I either spend my time in the writing center in HT2 125, or I carve out some mental space to work on creative ventures for my CTLE role. I run out of HT2 in the afternoon, always late, always over-encumbered, and I begin my afternoon driving shift. I usually kick this road trip off with a beat-up peanut butter sandwich. When I finally make it home at the end of the day, I once again focus on the care and feeding of kids and pets. I cook a meal with my husband as we listen to records, and I enjoy conversation with my family around the dinner table. I find some time to grade student work before I collapse into sleep, drooling on my pillow while the TV flashes blue and green across my bedroom ceiling.

I’ve created this playlist to capture my workday during this trying yet magical season of my life:

1. "Morning Has Broken" by Cat Stevens: This song represents the peaceful moments when it’s just me and my coffee.

Tied for first: "Wake Up" by Arcade Fire.

2. “Gotta Get Up” by Harry Nilsson: “Oh crap, put on your shoes we need to GO.”

3. “Everybody Wants to Rule The World”: My morning commute.

4. "Walking on Sunshine" by Katrina & The Waves: This song captures the first few minutes of class where I bring more happy energy than my bleary-eyed students are prepared for.

5. "Learn to Fly" by Foo Fighters: This song represents the inspirational side of teaching.

6. “Frankly Mr. Shankly” by The Smiths: This song represents the “Really? REALLY?” side of teaching.

7. "School's Out" by Alice Cooper: This song captures the feeling of fleeing campus as I transition from professor to mom again

8. "Fast Car" by Tracy Chapman: So much driving!

9.  "Home" by Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros: This is how I feel when the warm evening light slants through the window while I cook dinner and listen to records.

10. Golden Years–David Bowie: This is a hard season of life, but these are truly golden years.

11. "Creature Comfort" by Arcade Fire: This song captures dinner table conversations about life and the world. 

12. “Save it For Later” by the English Beat: This represents those times when, late at night, I try to offer feedback on student work (then fail to conjure the brain cells to do so).

13. "Motion Sickness" by Phoebe Bridgers: Ah, the physical and mental exhaustion I feel as I finally collapse into bed, ready for rest!

14. “Daylight” by Matt and Kim–Too soon, I do it all over again!

What's Outside My Office Door? Write 6x6 Week 1

Every spring, the Write 6x6 challenge affords me the chance to explore our beautiful campus as I deliver treats to the doors and cubbies of our courageous bloggers.

In 2022, when I begged to take over Write 6x6 after a year of dormancy, I didn't know my way around campus. I ventured out with my basket of treats, nervously checking a paper map and forgetting which direction was north. Today, however, I treasure the campus footpaths and office doors that I know by heart. I love the stroll that takes me to what feels like the farthest reaches of campus when I visit the Fitness and Wellness building to drop by Louise's door. I love chatting with the student workers in the admin building when I visit Lore and Tiffany. This year, I got to explore the Physical Sciences building for the first time when I brought George a treat! (Welcome to the team, George Gregg!) My last stop of the day, without fail, is always to pop by Mary Anne's office in Life Sciences. These little adventures are always a highlight of my spring semester.

Today, however, instead of writing about the familiar doors that greet me as I deliver snacks, I'd like to talk about the unique, magical, and just plain useful corners of our campus I have discovered by stepping outside my office door and onto our beautiful campus grounds. 

Here is a list of ten of my favorite campus features in no particular order:

1. A cat lives outside the O5 office building. I (secretly) named him Benny in 2020. He's still hanging around, but like any cat worth his salt, he probably has at least 13 names. (If you see him, tell him I say pspspsps.)

                                                             

2. There's a tiny troll hiding in the bushes by the Center for Learning. 

3. There's a brick oven and grill near the Student Union. Y'all, why are we not making use of this? I suspect this fixture has seen many a happy Gaucho get-together.

4. There are happy little painted rocks hidden throughout the campus that never fail to make me smile.

5. There's a free little library near the Faculty O7 building.

6. There's a gender-inclusive restroom in the Life Science building (and 17 more spread throughout campus).

7. The Library and LS building are Safe Places on our campus. A "Safe Place" is "a designated area where students, faculty, or staff can go if they feel threatened, unsafe, or in need of immediate help. These zones are marked with clear signage and provide a secure environment for individuals facing any form of distress." I will be adding this information to my course orientation in the fall.

8. The Geology department has created a beautiful display of minerals and rocks near a pathway between the Physical Sciences and Life Sciences buildings. I walk by this lovely collection so frequently that I have claimed a personal favorite: chert. I'd like to petition for the word "chert" to be the next witty and biting insult.

9. Roses, roses, roses! We are also a bee campus! I love to stroll the pollinator pathway and think about the good that our campus is doing for the bee community.

10. Outside the Life Sciences building is a lovely turquoise bell that rings gently when the wind blows.

Bonus: Although Saguaro Ranch Park isn't part of our campus, I love that it is close enough that I can wander over there to take in a little beauty. I also love that, from time to time, the peacocks and peahens wander over here to bring a little absurdity to an otherwise routine day.

As a Covid-hire, it took me a while to get to know our physical campus grounds, but five years later, GCC feels like home. Thank you for the adventures, fellow Gauchos!

ChatGPT, write a novel about a dystopian society that has been consumed by technology. Include book burning, and the death of creative thought.

When my daughter was a freshman in high school, she was assigned to read Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451. I admitted to her with great shame that I’d somehow navigated two degrees and a life-long love of reading without ever reading this classic. I decided to right this wrong immediately, and so we read the novel in tandem. 

I expected to like it. (It’s “a classic!”) It turns out I loved it. ADHD in tow, I promptly went down a Ray Bradbury rabbit hole, learning all I could about the life he lived and his beliefs about technology and the future. In my “research” (See also: Googling), I learned that he refused to release any of his work in digital form until 2011, a year before his death at age 92. He held a belief so strongly that he said no to publishing his writing in a way that would put his ideas into the minds of millions of people (and generate a significant bit of income to boot). 

How punk rock is that?

Did his protest against the future of technology do anything to stop it? Not in the least. I still respect the stand he took. I’ve been thinking about Bradbury’s boycott of digital publishing a lot lately as I grapple with my own feelings about technology and the future of creative and critical thinking. 

I recently attended a Zoom training hosted by a popular company that offers AI writing assistance. The woman leading the session enthusiastically shared how the AI components offered in their premium education accounts shepherd students past “the fear of the blank page.” Students can use generative AI to give them a list of possible ideas to write about or generate an outline for them to follow. It can check their tone or make a paragraph “stronger.” It can also, given a little nudge, write the whole damn thing for them. 

As a teacher of rhetoric and composition, I believe the point of what I teach is the process, not the finished product. I value my role as a coach, guiding students through the hard work of the writing process, starting with that frightening blank page all the way through to publication. Grappling with hard questions, carving new neural pathways of creative thinking, and showing yourself that you can do a really hard thing and survive it, or better yet, come out a little stronger in the end, are essential life lessons. I feel honored to guide my students through those experiences. 

But now our students can look at that long walk from the start to the finish of a writing assignment and opt to take the AI sky tram instead. They can arrive at their writing destination without breaking a sweat. 

As the future of AI in education breathes down my neck, I find myself wondering, do I want to be a Bradbury, digging in my heels in respect for my deeply-held principles about teaching, learning, and the craft of writing, knowing that my protest will do nothing to change what’s to come? Do I want to give in and say there's nothing I can do to stop what's coming, so let me grade this robot’s essay? Or might there be a space in between? 

~~

So, when I say I read Fahrenheit 451, I mean to say that I listened to it on my phone using the Audible app while commuting several hours each day to and from work, my kids’ two schools, and various music lessons and therapies. (Bradbury rolled his eyes in his grave, I am sure.) And, as I write this, I write it not with a pencil and a pad of paper with a dictionary at arm’s reach but on my laptop computer where I look up synonyms for words, move entire paragraphs around the electronic page, and allow the little red line to catch the spelling and punctuation errors I leave in the wake of my tapping fingers. 

Punk rock, I am not. 

Luckily, I peddle my philosophy of teaching here at GCC, where I am surrounded by educators who are devoted to the craft of teaching and student success. I teach on a campus that values the act of thinking and writing so deeply that every year, faculty and staff volunteer to do the hard work of wrestling ideas out of their heads and into the blogosphere for all to see. I know that my fellow Gauchos are scouting the horizon for that middle path forward into our future with AI in education, and if we don’t spot it, I am sure that we can tramp out a new path together.

5 Tips for Creating a Productive Environment for Studying by Lisa Moore

102 Mini-Syllabus

MiniSyllabus ENG 102 Spring 2024 by Lisa Moore

MiniSyllabus ENG 102 Spring 2024 by Lisa Moore

A Little Vulnerability

Little did I know when we crafted the Write 6x6 prompts that, during the week where we would
explore how we talk about current events, America would be struggling, once again, with grief and
anger after the 129th school shooting of 2023.

As I write this, my fifth grader is across town taking the state science test, and my high schooler
is conjugating verbs in French class. They are engaged in tasks that they probably won’t
remember–moments experienced by a million kids before them, nothing that should cause me
any worry. However, every time there is (yet another) school shooting, I spend suffocating under
the weight of anxiety and sadness until I can gather them home again.

Though it is statistically unlikely that one of my kids would be involved in a school shooting, gun violence
is now the number one cause of death in America for children ages 1 to 18. This is an important issue,
and one I know my kids and I should be talking about, but I am ashamed to say that I feel
unequipped to talk about it. Do I bring it up? Do I wait for an invitation to talk about it? Is there
a “right” thing to say or a way to help them make sense of the tragedy? How strong should I appear
when inside I am sad and angry?

It feels like there are more ways to mess it up than there are to get it “right.” My heart tells me that the best approach is to be honest and open. I know that I don’t have to have the answers, because what answers are there in the face of such senseless terror and loss?

I wrestle with similar feelings of inadequacy when I consider discussing current events in my
classroom. Though we have student-led discussion circles every other week, I do not purposefully
set aside time for discussing current events. When they arise organically, I make space for the
conversation. I try to rise to the occasion, again, with honesty, openness, and a little vulnerability.
I know I am doing my students no service by going on with business as usual when the world outside
our classroom door has been pitched into chaos. Everything from incidents of police violence to the
price of gas impacts their lives, and learning doesn’t occur in a vacuum.

Write 6x6 offers such a unique space for us to share with and learn from each other, and so I
am hopeful I might gather a few bits of wisdom or tools for my toolkit from the posts of others this week.
In the meantime, I prepare to fumble my way through a hard conversation with my own kids this evening.
I cannot tell them that everything will be okay, but we can sit together in our not-knowing.

Don't Stop Believin'

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 or 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.

Pandemic Lessons: Sit, Stay

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 the Golden Retriever was strapped into a cone of shame for its own safety and forced into a kennel. 

The keeper 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 work for it. I must occasionally say no. I must occasionally keep my hands in my lap. The eager 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.)

Coffee Talk: Class Discussion as Formative Assessment

When we talk about formative assessment, what usually comes to mind is a quiz, a ticket out the door, or a temperature-taking tactic like "thumbs-up/thumbs down."  Sometimes when I am feeling a little extra, I break out a Kahoot.

However, my favorite kind of formative assessment is the kind where students don't even realize that it's happening. I love it when students let their guard down, and instead of trying to produce The Correct Answer, they show me what they know. This is why I am a fan of using class discussion as a form of formative assessment.

Whole-class discussion works well enough on the fly when I am tired of the sound of my own voice, but it's far from perfect. Foremost, there are always a few students who regularly chime in, but there are many more students who are all too happy to sit back silently and let others do all the chatting.  I also find that many students don't feel comfortable in this setting to ask for clarification of a point, and so, again, they may sit back silently, hoping that the clouds will part and a ray of sun will illuminate whatever is confounding them. Another issue I experience with whole-class discussion is that, because I am the one leading it, students are less likely to take risks with the ideas they share. Instead, they are inclined to say what they think I want to hear.

A strategy I find myself relying on more often than when I first started teaching college is small group discussion.  Think-pair-share is a great strategy because it takes very little preparation. Sometimes I'll step up my game and grab the Student Sorting Pencils from the CTLE. These allow me to keep the groups moving in unexpected ways by breaking them into groups by color, numeral, or symbol. This method takes a few minutes of prep time, but it feels more exciting for everyone than being asked to turn and talk to a neighbor.

In these small group discussions, I am able to hang back and listen to what students are saying. Students seem to feel more comfortable asking classmates for clarification on a finer point that they might not ask the whole class. They also feel more comfortable calling me over for 'official' clarification. In small group discussions, I can overhear not only whether or not they understand the material, but I can listen to their thought process as they arrive at an answer. Furthermore, if I am tired of the sound of my own voice, surely they are too. The small group discussions break up the class time and allow students to relax a little.

Even in these small groups, when I sidle up to them, sometimes the conversation will cool, like I've removed the lid from a boiling pot. I don't know if they are worried that I might overhear The Wrong Answer and frown disappointedly? Or maybe they think I am there because I want to chime in, so they are making space for my interjection? Either way, I regularly find myself assuring students that I am just listening in and to continue as though I am not there.

One discussion strategy that has been collecting dust for the last semesters is the Socratic Seminar. Although this strategy takes more than a few minutes of preparation--not only on my part, but on the part of the students as well--it solves a few issues that whole-class and small-group discussions present. In a Socratic Circle (where an inner circle of students discusses prepared questions, and an outer circle of students thoughtfully observe and jots notes), I am not the leader of the group. This clears the way for students to strengthen their connections to one another as they share ideas and moderate their own discussion. Furthermore, I don't have to meander around the room to eavesdrop--I can take a seat at the back of the room and listen. They all but forget I am there when the discussion gets rolling. This is a safer space for students to share their thought processes and to take risks than in an instructor-lead discussion. Finally, students seem to like it. Win-win.

With each of these small(er) group strategies, I am able to use the authentic information I gather from students to shape future lessons or to know when to slow down and revisit a concept that seems to be tripping them up.

The opportunity to compose this post has set the gears in my mind turning. Most instructors use Socratic Seminars to facilitate a discussion about something the class was assigned to read, but I don't see why this strategy wouldn't work in a writing lesson. Maybe students could examine a sample essay or could talk about small portions of student drafts in a modified peer review. I'll let you know what comes out of these lesson plan ponderings.

I'd love to hear your tips and tricks for using discussion as a formative assessment. Do you use Socratic Seminars in your courses? What is your favorite strategy for class discussion?

Moore's Diner: Where Inclusivity is Always on the Menu

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.

"Put Me In Coach"

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

Given the theme of this blog post, you might assume that I am here to tell you about how, one day, I found the inspiration that would guide me as an educator within the pages of some book as I sat reading, alone in my childhood bedroom, P.E. be damned. This is not the case. In fact, I draw a great deal of inspiration for my approach to teaching from the world of fitness--precisely because I've always felt like an outsider in that environment.

Somewhere along the road to adulthood, I begrudgingly decided that I needed to exercise. I tried a number of different approaches to physical fitness over the years. I tried working out to DVDs in my living room with an audience of Cheerio-eaters lounging behind me on the couch. I tried running bleachers at Phoenix College. (There were so many ways I could have killed myself doing this.) I tried working out with a friend at LA Fitness. No matter the setting, I always carried with me those feelings of anxiety and a mean little (adolescent) voice in my head telling me that I don't belong.

About a year ago, I decided to try yet another new approach to cardiovascular health: I began taking classes at an Orange Theory Fitness near my house. I showed up with my dossier failures in sports and exercise tucked under one arm, and all my pet anxieties trailing obediently behind me. My experience at OTF, however, proved to be different. The students in class each week represent a diverse range of ages, body types, and physical abilities. The coach welcomes each of us with a high-five and remembers our names. When the coach offers a correction to a student's form when performing an activity, it is done with kindness, and in a spirit of helpfulness. I keep coming back because the coaches make it clear that every student in class belongs there, and that we are all striving for progress, not perfection.

Sometimes while I am panting through a hill on the treadmill, I think about what great teachers the OTF coaches are. With a little kindness, some high-fives a few accommodations, they have helped me to get out of my own way so that I can focus on my health. 

Every semester, just for a kick, I ask my classes who among them wants to become an English teacher. I have never had a single hand rise into the air. The students in my classes are not interested in spending their lives unlocking the mysteries topic sentences or MLA citation style for others. In fact, many of the students who show up to class on the first day feeling like outsiders to the world of English. Many of them carry around memories of a class they took where their paper was returned to them, bleeding red ink. Or one where they felt out of place because English is not their first language. Or one where they stopped coming to class because they were simply too anxious to complete the semester.

These days, I channel my inner Orange Theory coach. What can I do or say in class to show my students that they do, in fact, belong here? How can I help them to set aside their anxieties, quiet those voices in their heads, and start forging a new relationship with the world of words?

I think of my coaches, and I work to build a welcoming community in my classroom through friendly smiles, genuine interest in the lives of my students, some goofy memes, and an abundance of high-fives.