AP Literature, gardening, and marshmallow fluff

Only two weeks into the new semester and I’ve created anxiety in my AP English Literature classes.* I’ve told them that I’m going to be ruthless, and I’m keeping my promise by deleting words, phrases, and even sentences from their essays. “Cut the fluff,” I tell them, “and give me substance.”

Delineating between the two, however, is the challenge. They send me emails of angst, unsure of what is marshmallow and what is meat. They confuse the two, and I delete and rewrite to show them what’s what. Some sweetly email me thanks for my editing. Others greet me in the morning with a crusty glare and the words, “I thought it was good, but apparently not . . .”

I love these kids. I love their anxiety, their frantic messages, their pleas for help, their apologies for mistakes, their worry that they won’t be ready for the AP Exam or college, which I tell them I’m prepping them for.

I love them because they’re demonstrating desire to improve. They want to be better, they want to do the right (write) thing, they want me to highlight their sentences and share them on the board with everyone else as a good example.

And when one of them says something insightful about a poem or a character, and I write it on the board and say, “Ooh, I hadn’t considered that,” they beam: they got it right. They surprised the teacher.

Already more than once I’ve been able to say honestly to the classes, “Oh, good job, guys–you’re getting it! You’re so smart, I love it.”

And oh, how they glow.

Then I grade their essays and show them how half their words could be deleted to make the paper twice as effective. And the glow fades a little, but I’m not worried.

It really is all about gardening: they dig deep and plant new ideas, and weed and water–and a fair amount of manure is involved–and they worry and fret that nothing may come from all of their effort.

But already I see budding that they don’t yet recognize–my cruel pruning has its purpose–and in a few months these teenagers will bloom. Oh, how they’ll bloom.

I love spring.

Zweedy words

From Book 4, The Falcon in the Barn, available in paperback and Kindle.

*And why I haven’t had time to post here. There’s a lot of prep–I’m putting all my lessons on a website for when kids are absent or need reminders–and it’s a lot of grading. Whatever I make them do, I have to grade. (Who came up with this system?! It’s a punishing cycle for all of us.)

The joyful heartache of growing up

I seem to stay the same, but all around me children are moving on. The semester is ending this week, my students will wave good-bye and new groups will come in, many I’ve had before but are now older, many seniors for whom this will be the last semester of high school. Then they’ll walk away.

At home, I will have new grandbabies this year, a new in-law joining the family, and adult children on the move in all directions. I feel the need to chase them down, as I did when they were toddlers racing to the toy section of the store. But now, they run faster than I can.

My only consolation is that my adult children with families also express their happiness at their babies’ milestones, then complain that their children are growing too fast.

I think every generation for thousands has endured the same joyful heartaches.

Children grow away

 

Is it the truth, or a poor assumption we’re desperate to cling to?

I’ve discovered that learning a “new truth,” which means that my “old truth” was actually a “poorly constructed assumption,” can be very unsettling.

However, when I ponder the “new truth” and realize the wisdom and growth that comes from it, I’m able to let go of the “poor assumptions” which I was so enamored with, and move on to a far more “stable, honest reality.”

Granted, judging what’s “assumption” and what’s “truth” is a struggle, but it’s the ultimate struggle of life. It’s the whole reason we’re here: will we accept the truth when we discover it?

Pnot ready for the truth

Get the prequel The Walls in the Middle of Idumea here!

No, your teen isn’t the only one . . .

If you’ve ever dealt with early teens, you know exactly what I’m talking about. Nothing is more worrying than a thirteen-year-old wanting to help in the kitchen or the garage (except trying to teach a sixteen-year-old to drive a car).

They want to use knives, or Kitchenaide mixers, or power tools, or axes, and you smile encouragingly but subtly reach for the box of bandaids, hoping you won’t have to call 911.

Even Perrin Shin was once a gangly, floppy creature. That should give us all hope for our youth. Nearly all of them outgrow it.

Nearly.

p handsome clumsy boy

Get the prequel The Walls in the Middle of Idumea here!

My philosophy for teaching–don’t think about it too much

This sums up my approach to teaching, especially my first year.

Now that I’m in my third year . . . no, this still rings true.

(I do think about it, really, but it’s impossible to judge just how a lesson plan is going to go. Every single day . . . impossible.)

pgoing just fine

Get the prequel The Walls in the Middle of Idumea here!

Boys and injuries–like chocolate and peanut butter, they just go together

I’m a mother of five boys. Injuries just happen, especially if there are several boys. Before they’re reached their teenage years, each of my sons has been clanked and clonked and dropped and slammed multiple times. Even my quietest, most sensible son has had stitches for splitting open his thigh by merely tripping over a wheelbarrow. (I saw it happen, otherwise I never would have believed it.)

It’s remarkable how much damage can occur to/by boys simply by running to the kitchen when dinner is ready. My youngest son is now eight, and even though he’s fairly mellow, there will be injuries before he’s an adult. I keep my insurance card handy at all times.

Pboys and head injuries

Pbrain damage boys

The Walls in the Middle of Idumea will be a FREE DOWNLOAD this weekend. I’ll let you know which days!

Some people are just hard to figure out

I really enjoyed Pere Shin, and I hope he tells me more stories so I can write another book about him. He feels like a friend I’d forgotten about and recently found again.

In many ways, this description of Pere reminds me of my job. Sometimes after a class I feel a little like this. (I’m an introvert at heart; teaching–which I love–is also exhausting!)

And, to be fair, I think a few of my students think this about me as well:

Pshin confused him

The Walls in the Middle of Idumea will be a FREE DOWNLOAD this weekend. I’ll let you know which days!