I Am Proud of You

Today, on the Thursday before we start spring break, on the day the NCAA tournament officially started with games airing during the school day, I was reminded exactly why I teach. It was a simple, short conversation with a student.

She called me over to her seat and said, "You know the other day, you told me you were proud of me.  I'm still thinking about that today."

That is a treasure chest moment.

Two days ago, my students were to have written a rough draft of a spoken word poem. I had received an email the evening before. This student had written her poem, she told me, but it was really personal, and she didn't think it was very good.  I told her we were revising the next day, so it would be a great time to look at it.

So we sat down at the back of the room, and she opened up the piece she had written. It was heart-wrenchingly personal. It was emotional, and it was powerful.  I was a struck by the images, the sincerity, and the honesty. I thanked her for letting me read it. We talk about how creative writing often requires us to put ourselves out there, to open up our hearts or our heads and bleed on the page. She had done that. She was concerned if it was good enough, if it met the requirements of the assignment.  After assuring her that that was a distant second in order of importance at this point, we looked at her poem from that angle, pointing out how she had used questions to open the poem, then turned to a statement,  shifting the tone.  We found alliteration in one middle line that overlapped with internal rhyme before flipping to more alliteration and rhyme to round out the line in a unique and powerful cadence. We looked at how she might work in a visual metaphor near the end to strengthen her theme, which had developed well throughout the poem.

"Oh, I didn't know that stuff was in there," she said. That's how things happen sometimes.

At one point, as we both knelt in front of one of my tables and discussed what she had written, some tears were shed. I reached over, put my had on her shoulder, leaned closer, and told her, "I am proud of you." I told her that because I truly am proud of her. She had written a really powerful poem; she had bled on the page. More importantly, she had shown me a growing confidence that allowed her to do that.  An inner strength.

Sometimes, lessons are about so much more than content. Actually, most of the time, they are about so much more than content. We can never be completely sure where and when those opportunities are going to arise, or what form they will take. We have to provide an environment where they can happen, and encourage them through our daily interactions. I am blessed to teach a subject that lends itself to those lessons, to those moments. I am blessed to work among people who drive me to be better each day. I am blessed to walk into a school and a classroom full of young people who are doing great things, sometimes things that may not be noticed at first glance, but are, nevertheless, amazing. Kids who are battling every single day, looking for the chance to push themselves to be better, stronger, more. I am proud of them.

And I am proud to be their teacher and grow with them.

Sorry, Daryl. We Have to Move On.

Last week, The Walking Dead returned from its midseason hiatus, and the show's viewers waited with bated breath.

I did not. I wished I could have. I easily could have turned on AMC and spent time watching a premiere episode of a show that once held my students' captive I could have used it as planning time for the next day's discussions.

You heard me. Watching TWD could have been lesson planning.

You see, at BHS, we have implemented a number of new course offerings, and one of them is called Pop Culture Literature. The class sprung up from student interest.  Years ago, we would have "Walking Dead Mondays" in my senior English classes.  Student who were enthralled by the show would excitedly discuss how the setting had changed the conflicts, the characters such as Rick, Carol, and Dale had developed deep internal conflicts that had, in turn, created conflicts within the group, causing other characters to change drastically. Remember those days Mason, Calloway, and Kaitlin?  Later, after those students graduated, sophomores like Sydney and Shalee would pick up the conversations, discussing the importance of Daryl's angel's wings, Merl's unexpected heroic turn, the Lizzie's Lennyesque looking at the flowers, and Morgan's need to clear. Students knew they could postpone a day's lesson if they could get the ball rolling in the right direction. They could focus our class time on plotline set in Georgia and Alexandria, character motivations of Michonne and Beth, the irony of Father Gabrielle's unwillingness to sacrifice himself, and the allusion of the "biter battles" in Woodbury to the diversions used in ancient Rome's Coliseum and avoid having to analyse and discuss the assigned curriculum and, you know, literature.

Because studying literary concepts and how that relate to society is, you know, boring, right?

Those conversations were relevant, organic, enthusiastic, and meaningful. Think about it. This show focuses on an ever declining society where herds of mindless beings who once were rational, thinking human being move through the landscape with consumption as their only driving force. Could any premise be more applicable to the world our young people have grown up in? The kids were learning, even if they did not realize it.  Some definitely did know it, and they made the best of if.  Others did not, but they still learned more about characterization, symbolism, conflict, theme, allusion, and dozens of other concepts that they may not have ever truly grasped. And they connected to their worlds, to their lives.

That is why Pop Culture Literature developed into a full class.

So, back to my original train of thought. TWD is virtually nonexistent in our discussions now. I did not even watch it in anticipation of the literary discussion it could drive the next day. Why? Do these kids not get it? Do they fail to understand the subtleties of a well-written piece of modern, popular culture literature? Absolutely not.  In fact, it is just the opposite. The kids have not fallen off; the literature has.  During those Walking Dead Monday's, the content was rich and begged to be analyzed. Unfortunately, the show has lost it literary edge. Students tell me the plot has become predictable and redundant. They point out holes in the storytelling, and criticise "gimmicks" that have taken over content, expressing a dissatisfaction with nonlinear storytelling that is now overdone and arbitrary rather than fresh and driven by creative purpose. They are not impressed by the special effect violence, which they feel has become gratuitous, and they feel no connections to characters because they have lost their focus.

In other words, from a literary standpoint, the show is now longer good.  It is not worth their time. It does not make them feel, and it does not make them think. They want quality, and they are not mindless zombies who are going to tune in just because it is on. They are not accepting it as worth their time, as "good",  just because a critic or promo tells them it was. They are thinking for themselves.

So, we examine "good literature" in class. NF, Kendrick, and Kesha are the focus some days. Riverdale seems to be gaining steam, partly because of its plot and conflicts, partly because of the character development and symbolism each one carries. We still reach back to "older" pieces, like Green Day's American Idiot, The Breakfast Club, and The Lion King to name a few, that have enough quality to stand the test of time. We examined the symbolism of the feather scenes in Forrest Gump, and I want to examine the use of black and white a storytelling technique in American History X. We will look at the literary power of nostalgia in pop culture. Eminem was once a major player in our discussions, and he still holds a place, but this last album is being picked apart, not simply because kids "just don't like it", but because, from a literary angle, it just is not a good. Sometimes, my kid disagree about whether a piece (be it song, video, show, or film) is good or not, and they have developed standards by which to measure its value, rather than just yelling louder and claiming "Yes it is!"

In other words, they are thinking, they are developing those thoughts, and then they are expressing them in a critical and educated manner.

And right now, they think The Walking Dead is not worth their time and effort. I have to respect that. There is better literature out there, more meaningful discussion to be had. Sorry, Daryl. We have move on. We've learning to do.

Can I Ask A Question?

Today, we did discussion circles as part of our study of Cormac McCarthy's The Road. The novel is written in a fairly unique style, and while some students struggle at the beginning, it has become a favorite of many of our students at BHS. As I placed students in their respective circles, one young person told me she could not be in the inner circle, the one that would drive the discussion. "I don't think I get a lot of what we were supposed to read," she said. She seemed perplexed by my response.

"That's fine," I told her. That means you will have to ask questions. Those are important to discussion too."

"Oh. You mean we can do that?" she said.

This a bright student.  She speaks well, and she is active in class. And she wants to be right. That, my friends, is rub.

So often, it seems as if our kids want more than anything to get the right answer. They want to be correct. That's it. How they get there is irrelevant. If they cannot be most definitely right, they feel as if they have done something, well, wrong.  That seems logical.  It is how we have taught them to be. The problem with that is, if someone's primary goal is to be right, then the best way to do that is never to stretch beyond what is comfortable, what you already know. That thought process seems to be "If I don't know that what I am thinking is right, and absolutely right, I will settle back and wait to find out, or at least find out what the right answer is." Not knowing for sure is uncomfortable, but it means one are in new territory, that one's mind is wrapping around or rolling about something different. That means learning. And that mean growth. But to take an active role in that means putting oneself out there, risking being (gasp) wrong, or worse, seeing something differently than everyone else did, or thought they did. That is scary. That is necessary.

And it is my job to create a classroom where they can feel vulnerable, where they can take the risk of being wrong once in a while.

In the previous hour, which is another talented group, but much smaller and therefore more willing to show more vulnerability, I noticed students in the discussion looking my way after each comment. They seemed to asking "Is this right? Did I say what you wanted?" As the discussion progressed, they quit looking my way and looked to one another.  Well, most of the time.  Sometimes I would squirm in my seat, wanting to speak but knowing that I needed to let them feed the conversation rather than be prodded by me. And feed it they did, and it grew.  They built off one another's comments. They found passages to support each other's thoughts. And they asked questions.  "Hey, did anyone else wonder why..." became a powerful tool not a sign of weakness or uncertainty..

At one point after a particularly insightful analysis that meandered through several of our discussion points for the day, a student turned to me and apologized. "I'm sorry. That might have been a little off topic."

I told the group that they had no idea how happy I was at that moment. They had gotten away from original starting point of the discussion, and in doing so, they had delved more deeply into the development of the two main characters, examining their changing relationship and questioning their motivations. I hadn't asked a question in 20 minutes or more, and the hour had flown by.  In addition, the outer circle was primed and chomping at the bit, ready for tomorrow, when they would be able to jump in with their ideas, commentary, and questions.

The young lady about whom I spoke at the beginning of this post did ask questions. So did her classmates.  They stopped worrying so much about if what they thought was right and started looking at why they thought it. They expressed ideas and made connections and drew parallels. The class bounced from point to point, and it was a little messy.  It was what I had hoped for. Even better, it is what I am looking forward to tomorrow.

'Meet Them Where They Are' or 'Crybaby, Dierks, and La La Land'

Every teacher hopes for that near-perfect lesson, the one that hits all the right buttons with the students, that weaves together vital ideas and presents them in a way that is understandable and relatable. Those lessons, those days, are the good ones.

I had one of those days last week. The kicker was this: it wasn't mine. It happened in my classroom, during one of my class periods. However, I had very little to do with it.

That day, a young lady walking into my classroom knowing that she was supposed to present to the class. She told me she was nervous, repeating what she had told me the day before, revealing that she was literally shaking. This is a talented, intelligent student who performs on stage in front of an audience, acting or singing with grace. But this is different, for her anyway. This was scary, and she smiled her nervous smile and took a deep breath.

This young lady then proceeded to spend more than 30 minutes enlightening the class of 25 teenagers on the concepts of imagery, symbolism, character development, allusion, tone, and conflict.. Students asked questions afterward and appeared to be legitimately engaged as they moved through themes of perception, body image, and loyalty. We even touched briefly on the validity of separating art from the artist. She began with a slight quiver somewhere beneath her voice and ended by answering questions with insight and confidence.  Mind you, this was on the last Friday prior to Winter Break. During 6th hour.

"What was the topic and lesson?" you might be asking. This young lady had presented a case for the literary value of music of Melanie Martinez, a singer-songwriter who rose to fame on The Voice and whose debut album Crybaby has gained widespread popularity. In doing so, the student pointed out allusions to Alice in Wonderland and drew comparison in tone to poetry by Edgar Allan Poe. She took the class on a walk through the album's structure as a "novel" of sorts, demonstrating how the protagonist changed and drawing on specific lines and images from the lyrics and videos to reveal how symbolism was used and conflicts developed.  She chose particular songs to dive deeply into, supporting her thoughts and ideas. The major themes of the work were laid out and illustrated in entertaining clarity.  She truly taught the class that day.

And she did it well. And I was across the room most of the hour, learning with the kids and jotting down questions I wanted to ask when she finished. The other students asked most of those questions before I had a chance.

The day was part of our final for our new Pop Culture Literature class. This student is one of the last ones to present. Students have enlightened us on character development and conflicts in Green Day's American Idiot and the film Homeward Bound, analyzed rhyme and metaphor in music of J. Cole, and examined plot structure through a Dierks Bentley album and La La Land. Color symbolism has taken center stage in discussions ranging from Riverdale to Wizard of Oz, from The Lion King to The Walking Dead. The role of music in setting tone and influencing character were presented through the film version of The Great Gatsby.  I could continue through the wide-reaching topics ranging from Red Dirt Country to modern musicals.

It has not all been perfect. Far from it. I may not have guided some students well enough. Some students did not stretch themselves, and they barely scratched the surface of their self-selected topics. Many glossed over comparisons to accepted literature in their arguments, a vital component of the project. Even in some of those situations, however, good things have resulted. One young man struggled greatly. He has no confidence in his ability to write, and he doubts every idea he has regarding what we read. After "failing" his case study argument, I pulled him aside. We discussed where he had fallen short of expectations and where he might have used ideas we had discussed during his project development. Then I brought up paths he could take moving forward. His first response was "If it means redoing stuff, I will just take the bad grade." Then I dropped a bomb on him. I did not get upset and say, "Fine!" That is what he wanted; that way, he was off the hook. An F was not that big of deal. He'd had them before. Instead, I told him I was not going to let him, or me, off the hook that easily. That would not be fair to him. I laid out what we needed to do, and how we would do it.  Since then, we have spent a good deal of time working one on one, talking about his lyrics, finding a poem that could be used for comparison, and finding examples of internal and end rhyme used by J. Cole. I have typed while he talked.  He asked me for a simple cheat sheet of different rhymes. This week, he neared the end of that path. I told him all he had to do was polish up what he had written, and we would be good. Then he dropped a bomb on me. He said, "Can I add another paragraph about the meaning of the songs on the album?" He wanted to do MORE. He is getting it, and as a result, he wants to do more than the minimum. He wants me to be able to see what he thinks, to show me that he has learned something. That is big. And a major contributor to that shift is what he has been learning from the other students in his class. He has learned more about rhyme and metaphor and theme from them as they argue their cases. Does he always pay attention to them? I will just say "No, he does not." He doesn't always pay attention to me either. He still gets distracted and fidgets, a lot. But he is learning, learning from our one on one discussions and definitely learning from the others in the class.

So, where am I going with this rambling walk through my class? Honestly, I don't know. I just felt that these two students' stories were important to me as a teacher. Sometimes, the best learning takes place when we give our kids some tools and materials and then step back and let them go. Sometimes, we have to meet them where they are, instead of where we wish they would be. This semester in this new course, we have dived deeply into high level concepts such as symbolism and character motivation, irony and paradox. We have examined themes that lead uncomfortable conversations about major issues in our schools and society today. All revolving around popular music, TV shows, and films. Sometimes, we need to take a step back and regroup. Refocus on what is important: is learning taking place?  Sometimes, we need to thank our lucky stars that we have supportive administration and leadership who are willing to let us run with ideas as long as we can show that it is best for our kids, even though others are raising critical eyebrows. Sometimes, I have to say "Thank you" to a team of colleagues to have had the vision, imagination, patience, and guts to be a part of this shift. And sometimes, when things are not going the way "they are supposed to go" in my classroom, I have to remember that I have amazing kids, and they can go down amazing paths.

And because of that, because they and the kids who will follow them, are my kids, I have to keep trying to get better and make what happens in my classroom more worthwhile.

After all, it's all about the learning, right? For all of us.

A Single Drop of Water...

I walked with a school family member before school recently, discussing the upcoming day and conducting some invaluable hallway collaboration. As we met students, we said, "Good morning!" to individual and groups. Most students nod or respond with a "Good morning" or "Hey, Mr. Cholz" or the like. (Yes, some of my students call me by odd reincarnations of my name, but it is done with fondness, so how can I be upset?) Anyway, as we progressed down the hall, greeting students, I noticed one student who, as I said, "Good morning," turned her eyes to the floor. For some reason, it hit me harder than it probably might have, so I turned around and caught up to her.

Long story short, she was having a bad day. In fact, she was having a bad year. We talked, she smiled, and we came to an agreement that she needed to come see me more often even though she doesn't have me for class this year and her only class in my wing is at the other end of the hall.

I guess where I am heading with this is that we just don't know. Initially, I could have taken her disregard of my morning greeting as simply rude. Dang kids anyway. That would have been easier, and I could have moved on in my conversation and gotten to the end of the building much more quickly. However, that would have been malpractice on my part. My job is to teach kids. Sometimes, that means asking someone how the day is going; it might be the first time someone has asked, and that may be what that kid needs at the time. You never know just how important a seemingly simple word or act can be at that moment.

I remember years ago, I had a student in class who was a sensitive soul. Upon returning from lunch one day, I noticed the girl was upset, something that was reinforced when she left the room and hurried to the bathroom just as she was supposed to present an assignment to the class. I didn't know what had happened at lunch to upset her, but when she returned to the room, another student interrupted me. These two students were not especially close, but had gone to school together for years. The student interrupted me to ask if she could present her assignment in place of the other girl. "It would really help me out if I could go first, Mr. Kohls." She turned to the upset student and asked, "Do you mind if I trade you spots? Please?"

That little act of kindness completely changed that student's day, and possibly her self-perception for a long time. She had been excluded from a group in the cafeteria, and that simple request to trade presentation slots told her she had someone who noticed, and someone who would help her out.  The Good Samaritan had nothing to gain from the switch; she was just being a good person. But it had a serious impact.

My sophomores are currently studying Fahrenheit 451. In the novel, a character named Granger states that every person needs to leave an impact:
“Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my father said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you’re there. It doesn’t matter what you do, he said, so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that’s like you after you take your hands away.” (150-151).

As a teacher, I feel blessed to work with people. I hope to leave a positive impact of some sort on the people I meet each day. Sometimes, I get caught up in the idea that what is going to impact kids and others around me are the "big deals": the perfect lesson that leaves the class in awe, the curriculum redesign that leads to engagement and achievement, or the initiative that shifts the culture of the school. Those are all important, but in the grand scheme, in the lives of those we see in our classrooms and in our hallways each day, the impact of the little things, the daily acts, may prove more significant. A single drop of water, repeated hundreds or thousands of times, can break through stone. A positive word, a smile, or nudge of encouragement, repeated day after day or moment after moment, can have a positive effect of the same magnitude.

The Day I Crushed It in my Classroom

Sometimes, there are moments that come together to lift you, smack you down, or remind you who you are. Those days can be painful, rewarding, enlightening, or all of these at once.

Last week, I was having a conversation with a particular student who was in my class last year. She is a special talent, but I worry about her. She is one of my kids. I felt a sense of ease when she described her current teacher in this way: "He seems to be incredibly kind." I know how important this description is for so many kids. It allows them to let their true selves develop and thrive. It is vital. And it is accurate.  Later, I opened an email from a parent. I will not go into details, but the note made me swell up a little bit with pride. She told me my classroom is a safe place, a place a student can feel comfortable. I was having a very satisfying, rewarding morning.

Kids need those places. For so many students, school is a place to take a deep breath, feel the warmth of a caring adult, build themselves up, and rally the strength it takes to meet the rest of the world. To be an active part of that, to have my room serve as a sanctuary or just a place of calm means the world to me. To know that our hallway and our school is full of teachers who work each day to provide that for our kids warms my heart. I felt such pride that morning as I thought about ways we help our students grow and find their ways.  I was ready to take on the day with a bounce in my step and a confident smile on my face. I was feeling it.

Then, in short, I crushed it, and not in a good way. Not in the perfect swing, blast the ball over the centerfield fence way. Not in the take the handoff and hit the gap into the open field, striding to the endzone way. Not in the have them on the edge of their seats with excitement and engagement sort of way. No. I crushed it horribly. I placed my foot on top of a delicate blossom, pressed down with my considerable weight, and ground the petals into the gravel. Yeah. It was not a good moment.

I embarrassed a student in my room. I took a good-natured back and forth and, without noticing until it was too late, I allowed it to become something painful. I allowed laughing eyes to turn dark and tearful. We talk about the Pink Floyd line "No dark sarcasm/In the classroom". That day, I had thrown that shadow, somehow had allowed myself to become that mocking old man who ridicules a young poet for jotting down future classic rock lyrics. For that student, at that moment, my classroom was a terrible place. And it was because of me.

I did not realize it until it was too late. When I did, I apologized, profusely and sincerely. The young person said, in a whisper, "It's ok." No, it's not. I told her that. It is not ok. It is never ok for my classroom to become a place where a student does not feel safe or fears what might happen next. I am not talking about a student being uncomfortable because she has to admit she had failed to meet responsibilities. I do not mean light-hearted banter and joking that both sides enjoy. This was different. This was unnecessary.

The fact is, if a student does not feel safe in my classroom, he is not going to allow himself to be vulnerable. And if he is not somewhat vulnerable, he will not take chances, and if he does not take chances, he will not grow. In English, each time we write, we put a little bit of ourselves on the page. Each discussion can be a step out on a ledge. Those steps and that blood are necessities for students to really find who they are and to learn to express themselves, to develop the confidence needed to let themselves go. That takes a safe place.

So, now what do I do? I fix it. I admitted I was wrong, not just so she would feel better at that moment but because she needs that I understand I was wrong. She needs to know that I make mistakes, and I own up to them. She needs to know that I will do better, that each day, I will work to help create a safe place. And she needs to know that she can still take chances, and sometimes fail. She needs to know that I am not going to laugh at her, but I may chuckle along with her as I help her and brush her off. If I am lucky, she will do the same for me.

One Man's Trash...

One man's trash is another man's treasure. That cliche might not be more evident anywhere than in a an English classroom that uses flexible seating.

Last winter, we saw a post from a teacher Twitter about the idea of Blackout Poetry. In a nutshell, you take discarded pages of print, newspapers, old books, pages from a magazine, and you find words that go together. Sometimes, the words clomp up and string together easily. At other times, they skip and bounce, having to be drawn together with more creative strings. Austin Kleon has produced some impressive work using this type of approach, inking up portions of entire newspapers, and leaving behind both poetic and visual images. No longer is a page of text something to throw away; it is truly something to recycle. My students seemed to fall in love with it. My box of pages from books that were falling apart would mysteriously empty after the Hopkins sisters visited my room. Mya startled us all with some strikingly vivid imagery. Kenz made me take a deep breath, and Neil showed me that pages from old Harlequin Romance paperbacks may not be the best resource for a class with creative sophomore boys. I could go on and on about the what they kids created, and I am proud of the pages that eventually were tacked to my bulletin board. Old pages, new ideas. Old text, new excitement.

Teachers seem to be natural scroungers. Many of us see an old chair and wonder, "Would my kids use that if I put it in the corner of my classroom?" A table discarded from a science room might miraculously acquire a fresh coat of paint and show up in an English classroom at the other end of the building. Throw-away pool noodles become decorating supplies and exercise ball stands. Garage sales are an addiction, and at every turn, the potential for something that might make a classroom just a little more inviting and effective is found in the oddest of places. Or, maybe that is just me. I doubt it though, since a colleague, Sam Neill (visit her blog too) has coined our ELA classrooms at BHS the "Hallway of Misfit Furniture".

So, it should come as no surprise that a broken chair, a box of old books, and a forgotten display shelf were the inspirations this summer for the latest addition to my classroom. I will let you in on something: I really dislike the plastic student chairs in most classrooms. One goal of mine since I began using flexible seat was to acquire enough office chairs at garage sales so that no student would ever have to sit in one in my room, even if they choose to sit at a table. One of the biggest issues with those plastic chairs is that every single one develops a broken rivet and begins to wobble. I had two such broken chairs in my room that had lost all but one rivet, leaving them useless. Or so I thought. My floor sofa, a student favorite, needed additional support. A plastic chairback became a perfect solution. Because I cannot throw anything away without exploring every potential use, I held on to the base. I am glad I did. A brainstorm and a little bit of work later, I had constructed a low table, complete with student samples of blackout poetry displayed beneath plexiglass. I had one more base, which I tucked away in the garage until my next inspiration hit.

Later, I found an old shelf from a display counter in the rafters above my garage. It was left by the house's previous owners, and I, of course, had not thrown it away. The surface of the shelf was bubbled and, honestly, kind of gross. I needed to cover it with something. I started with the idea of more student blackout poetry, covered with clear contact paper. Then a thought struck me. I had a box of books that I had bought at a garage sale for 50 cents. They were falling apart and "worthless". I collected the pages of one old book of "Classic American Fiction" that had broken away from the book's spine and began gluing. They covered the top of the table, leaving a smooth and intriguing surface. (Note: when transporting a paper-covered table in the bed of a pickup, avoid doing so on a Kansas morning with 96% humidity. The pages won't be so perfect when you get to school. But hey, nobody's perfect.) In my head, it would be an organic piece of creative work for and by the students in my class. I wanted them to circle, underline, write, and scribble all over the table. On the first day of school, I explained to my classes that they were welcome to begin transforming the top of the table into their own work of art. If they liked what they created, we would snap a picture of it and probably post it on Twitter. If they hated it, we could paste a new page over the top of it, and they could go again. If we filled the tabletop with their works, we would snap an image to immortalize it, and lay down a new canvas of pages. They seemed intrigued. However, they hesitated. For so long, we have told our kids not to write on the tables, to remain seated, to keep quiet. Breaking those bindings can be somewhat difficult. Finally, one student from my creative writing class began circling words and then blacking out others. Soon, four students sat around the table, pencils and Sharpies in hand, letting the pages write the poems. One student kept coming back each day, adding a word or two. Another artfully blued out her blackout page, fading away in an artful display, mainly because the marker was drying out. Sometimes the "mistakes" and "screw ups" can lead to the most beautiful results.

The table is still not filled, and there are coffee stains on some of the pages, which I find oddly neat. I leave the markers on the tabletop, and sometimes felt tip pens show up and be added to the collection. I have noticed more students reading through the pages that are inked up. Hopefully, they will grow brave enough to start marking for themselves.

It's for them after all, and I love seeing them make it theirs.