“You must not come lightly to the blank page… If you can take it seriously, we can do business. If you can’t or won’t, it’s time for you to close the book and do something else.” (107)
Wow, harsh words there, Stephen! I get it, writing is important. But…some could argue you are being a little bit too hard core about it there! Take a chill pill, it’s not the end of the world!
Wait…was that me or some of my students speaking there? I guess it could go either way. They often tell me that I’m too hard core about writing. My sophomores have made my cheerful, “Good morning, let’s start by writing!” into a class motto and my seniors are convinced I go home and spend all of my time thinking of ways to torture them with essays.
I get it. The first teacher to do that to me was in 7th grade English, Mrs. Pace. The “gifted” class. We were the chosen ones who not only got to leave the 7th grade top floor to go downstairs to the big 9th grade floor, but we also ‘got’ to have two class periods of English. One for reading, one for writing is what we were told but we never really questioned why all the other students got an extra elective we never did. We were too young to notice, and our parents just liked to be able to say their kids were in the “gifted” class. I’m not sure who tested us or what we did to be considered “gifted” but there we were in Mrs. Pace’s class.
Mrs. Pace’s class meant you would write. Mrs. Pace’s class meant you would read. And, if you didn’t complete an assignment, you would face the dreaded D on the report card. She made that clear.
On the first day of school Mrs. Pace didn’t bother introducing herself. We had heard the stories about her already, so she got straight to the good stuff. 2 country reports over the year. 4 independent projects. 8 books. Here are the deadlines. Miss one, get a D. Don’t do one, get a D. Turn one in that I think is crummy, get a D. Got it? We were “gifted”. We got it.
Over that year, we grumbled, protested, griped, and whined our way through it. I reported about Ireland, did a cross country journal from New York to Santa Barbara (complete with prices and gas mileage), learned to needlepoint for an independent project, and read more books than I ever thought I would. And I hated every minute of it.
Finally, we were into the third nine weeks and I was over it. I had stayed up waaaay too late completing country reports, finishing book projects, and I was supposed to be finishing my third independent project. The one I had to do or get a D. I think I had decided this project would be a latch hook pillow of some kind, but I never really got around to actually doing it. And then it was due. That day. So, I grabbed a stuffed animal mom and I had made the clothes for about two years ago, thought it looked crafty enough to pass, and went to school. Finally, it was my turn to present, and I shared that bear as though we had just spent hours and days making it. I wasn’t exactly proud of myself, but I figured I would get my grade and move on with life. And it was better than showing up with nothing and getting that dreaded D on the report card.
Until Mrs. Pace asked to see me out in the hall. I trudged out, knowing before she spoke exactly what she would say. Or so I thought. I expected a speech about disappointment, expecting better from me, the normal teacher to kid stuff. What I got was worse.
“Why are you in this class?” she asked me. I’m sure I muttered some sort of answer but it wasn’t what she wanted to hear. She told me I was in the class because somewhere in the past year I had scored well on a test. “That test means nothing,” she said matter-of-factly. “Tests mean absolutely nothing,” she reiterated. She bluntly told me that she sees many students who can score well, but if they don’t do the work it’s all meaningless. “The test means you CAN do well. It doesn’t mean you WILL. You have to decide whether you will or not.” It was her way of telling me to get down to business. If I didn’t want to get down to business, I was welcome to go do something else.
She did give me the D on my report card, but I like to think I learned an important lesson. Sometimes, you just have to get down to business.
Wow, harsh words there, Stephen! I get it, writing is important. But…some could argue you are being a little bit too hard core about it there! Take a chill pill, it’s not the end of the world!
Wait…was that me or some of my students speaking there? I guess it could go either way. They often tell me that I’m too hard core about writing. My sophomores have made my cheerful, “Good morning, let’s start by writing!” into a class motto and my seniors are convinced I go home and spend all of my time thinking of ways to torture them with essays.
I get it. The first teacher to do that to me was in 7th grade English, Mrs. Pace. The “gifted” class. We were the chosen ones who not only got to leave the 7th grade top floor to go downstairs to the big 9th grade floor, but we also ‘got’ to have two class periods of English. One for reading, one for writing is what we were told but we never really questioned why all the other students got an extra elective we never did. We were too young to notice, and our parents just liked to be able to say their kids were in the “gifted” class. I’m not sure who tested us or what we did to be considered “gifted” but there we were in Mrs. Pace’s class.
Mrs. Pace’s class meant you would write. Mrs. Pace’s class meant you would read. And, if you didn’t complete an assignment, you would face the dreaded D on the report card. She made that clear.
On the first day of school Mrs. Pace didn’t bother introducing herself. We had heard the stories about her already, so she got straight to the good stuff. 2 country reports over the year. 4 independent projects. 8 books. Here are the deadlines. Miss one, get a D. Don’t do one, get a D. Turn one in that I think is crummy, get a D. Got it? We were “gifted”. We got it.
Over that year, we grumbled, protested, griped, and whined our way through it. I reported about Ireland, did a cross country journal from New York to Santa Barbara (complete with prices and gas mileage), learned to needlepoint for an independent project, and read more books than I ever thought I would. And I hated every minute of it.
Finally, we were into the third nine weeks and I was over it. I had stayed up waaaay too late completing country reports, finishing book projects, and I was supposed to be finishing my third independent project. The one I had to do or get a D. I think I had decided this project would be a latch hook pillow of some kind, but I never really got around to actually doing it. And then it was due. That day. So, I grabbed a stuffed animal mom and I had made the clothes for about two years ago, thought it looked crafty enough to pass, and went to school. Finally, it was my turn to present, and I shared that bear as though we had just spent hours and days making it. I wasn’t exactly proud of myself, but I figured I would get my grade and move on with life. And it was better than showing up with nothing and getting that dreaded D on the report card.
Until Mrs. Pace asked to see me out in the hall. I trudged out, knowing before she spoke exactly what she would say. Or so I thought. I expected a speech about disappointment, expecting better from me, the normal teacher to kid stuff. What I got was worse.
“Why are you in this class?” she asked me. I’m sure I muttered some sort of answer but it wasn’t what she wanted to hear. She told me I was in the class because somewhere in the past year I had scored well on a test. “That test means nothing,” she said matter-of-factly. “Tests mean absolutely nothing,” she reiterated. She bluntly told me that she sees many students who can score well, but if they don’t do the work it’s all meaningless. “The test means you CAN do well. It doesn’t mean you WILL. You have to decide whether you will or not.” It was her way of telling me to get down to business. If I didn’t want to get down to business, I was welcome to go do something else.
She did give me the D on my report card, but I like to think I learned an important lesson. Sometimes, you just have to get down to business.