Writing on the Run

A photo of my daybook.
I was working on a poem on these pages.

I’m not a runner.  On occasion, I’ve been bold enough to tell myself that this time it will be different.  If I just stick it out, I’ll be able to run a distance without getting winded, without feeling like my heart is trying to fold itself up like a pair of freshly laundered socks.  

The only time I’m able to break this rule is in my writing notebook.  In here, I’m Usain Bolt.  I’m not running to tone and maintain, or to achieve Olympic gold, rather, I’m running for my life, my writing life.  In my notebook, I’m dodging the censor, and the cursor. 

When I have a blank page in my writer’s notebook, I see possibility.  I see the opportunity to simply write without judgment, mine or anyone else’s. .  Here I’m able to, as Don Murray discusses, write badly to write well.  I do not have the distraction of the blinking cursor, taunting me with each blink, or the audience for whom I’m writing whispering in the back of my head that my last line was awful.

Pictures of the important people in my life help provide me
writing inspiration, but also my support system.

I’ve made my writer’s notebook my safe place.  It is bookended by photos of all the people in my life who care for and support me: my husband, my daughter, my parents, my best friend, my mentor, and my dog.  These people provide me with plenty of writing material, but also are those who allow me the freedom to experiment, mess up, and try again.  This comfort allows me to take risks in my writing that I don’t allow myself to take when I’m staring at the cursor. 

There are fewer distractions for me when I’m writing in my notebook, even if the place where I am actually writing has more than noise and activity than a quiet classroom or office.  There are no red squiggly lines reminding me I’m an awful speller, no green hecklers prompting me to doubt my grammar knowledge.  I’m less judgmental about my writing, so I can just write.

When I journey through my writer’s notebook, reliving the writing I’ve recorded, I feel accomplishment.  In this notebook I have found understanding of another’s writing, felt the pain of watching a grandmother succumb to Alzheimer’s (not my grandmothers, but a grandmother of a character I created) and discovered truths about my family and myself. None of these discoveries would have been possible without the security of my writer’s notebook. 

I guess I am a runner of a different sort.  My sharpie pen is laced up, the open track of my notebook ready for sprints.

Sacredness of the Ordinary

It is smooth to the touch save for a dimple in the middle, silver, and the size of a nickel. In the rare moments she wants to cuddle, my daughter will perch on my lap, pull the necklace close to her, and align her thumb in the pendant’s middle—a cast of her one-year-old thumb.

That cast marks my transition to motherhood and my re-education of things I thought I knew.

The sleep deprivation of those first few weeks, standing in her bedroom, shirt wet from my tears and hers because I could not get the mandrake shrieks of my colicky child to stop, trumps any late night college study session. I also realized that fears I previously thought legitimate pale in comparison to the fear that gripped me as I witnessed a heart wrenching febrile seizure and the nerve-wracking ride to the hospital that followed. 

That first year was not all scary and frustrating lessons, however. There were many moments of joy: seeing not only myself, but my mother and grandmother reflected back in her bright eyes, which shortly after her first birthday changed from blue to hazel; watching her confidence grow as she toddled from the couch to my open arms; and, laughing as her diapered bottom swayed to the “Single Ladies” video.

I also learned to appreciate the fun in every day.  I remember someone asking me how parenthood was and replying that there was not a day since Evelyn was born where I had not laughed. Five years later, that laughter and appreciation for the lighter side of life continues, especially now that she has a newfound love for joke telling--and her knock-knock jokes don’t make any sense.

It is hard to fathom that the little girl whose thumb made this print is now a kindergartner, a little girl who loves to read—to her mother’s joy--a little girl who relishes in making new friends, and a little girl who is not afraid to make her voice heard—usually, but not always, to her mother’s joy.

In the end, the greatest lesson I learned in that first year, and continue to learn in the four years since, is how quickly time moves. This year, she went off to kindergarten, confidently strutting through the doors; tomorrow it will be middle school, and then high school and then college. Like so many mothers, I wish I could freeze time and keep her this age longer, to relish each minute.

Yet, with each passing year, I will have the memory of the first year that changed the way I defined myself—no longer just daughter, sister, wife and friend, but mother, first and foremost—cast in silver, smooth to the touch save for a dimple in the middle.

In fiction as in life, fathers are not cardboard cutouts: my defense of fictional fathers

A common gripe voiced this year about the freshmen curriculum is the less-than-stellar father figures in our literature. While there are some fair points to be made about the questionable nature of our fictional fathers, the statement that they're all bad is quite unfair. As we look toward the end of the week, one that honors our fathers, I thought I'd take a swing at dispelling the myth that all our books focus on awful dads. To be fair, some do. But I challenge you to think a bit more deeply about that broad statement to see if there are more redeeming qualities these dads harbor than you give them credit for.

The least defensible father appears to be Capulet from Romeo & Juliet. At first, it seems like we have a father who is ahead of his time and wishes his daughter every happiness. But by the end of Act 3, he is screaming at his daughter, wishing her to die in the streets because she won't go along with his plan to marry Paris. On this one, I'm with you. This character change has always confounded me. I can only chalk it up to Shakespeare having to move things along and add a plot twist that would make Juliet want to take her life. A bit unsatisfying if you ask me.

Five People You Meet in Heaven also includes a father with less-than-ideal tendencies. Eddie's father is displayed through his alcoholism, his short temper, and his violent outbursts. On the surface, he's not a good man and certainly not admirable. Like Eddie as an adult, his father is insecure about his lot in life. He believes his son thinks he is better than him. When we learn of the true cause of his father's death and the fall-out with Mickey, we see that there is more to this man than a violent, angry person. While his case is not compelling enough to warrant him a "good father", to write him off as purely bad--considering not only that he tried to protect his wife the night Mickey died, but also tried to save Mickey--would be a mistake.

Johnny not a good father? Bite your tongue!
(Smith 328).

Those cracks in the argument that all the fathers in the novels are bad become gradually more distinct in A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.  On the surface, Johnny is the man. He's good looking, he loves to sing and dance, he's madly in love with his wife, and adores his children. But, he is also weak. Alcohol is his kryptonite. 

Yet, despite his struggles with alcoholism, we see the love his children and wife have for him. They know at his core, Johnny is a good man with a good heart. He takes time to listen to his daughter, to tell her stories--as fantastic as they may be--to teach her to dream, to apply herself, and to appreciate and respect her mother. He is constantly trying to educate his children about life, about nature, about song. He is the dreamer that makes Francie see possibilities beyond Brooklyn and a large part of what enables her to go out and seek success.

A father who shares Johnny's flaw is Ed's dad from I am the Messenger. We never get the chance to meet Ed's dad, but from the way Ed discusses his father--and the way the narrator does at the end of the novel--it is clear that his dad, like Johnny, was a good man with a serious weakness. Yet, it is his dad's weakness that ultimately makes Ed into the man he is by the end of the novel. Without a clear picture of the path he is heading down, despite the love he bore for his father, Ed knows he'd end up just like him: a drunk with wasted opportunities. It takes some prodding by his mom and the man behind the cards for Ed to find his purpose. When he does, it is clear to the reader as well as to Ed that his dad loved him and was loved in turn.

In Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet, we have a few father figures we can assess. Henry's dad, much like Eddie's, is set in his ways and shuts Henry out. However, in Henry's father's case, he believes he is doing everything to give Henry the best chance at a successful life. He just doesn't realize that his definition of success is not the same as Henry's. Furthermore, he is abiding by the customs he was raised with, and has a hard time navigating this new world and its culture.

While Henry does not have the best model of a good father, he does an admirable job of trying to bridge the gap between himself and Marty. He remembers what it was like to not have the chance to make his own decisions in life and ensures that Marty will follow his own happiness. In doing so, he's able to find happiness for himself long after he believed it possible.  

Lastly, Keiko's dad is flat out amazing. We only have brief glimpses into the character, but he clearly represents the American ideal of making your life what you want it to be. He passes this belief on to Keiko. He enjoys "American" music, harbors no prejudice against the Chinese, and makes the most of his time in the internment camps. Mr. Okabe is certainly a dad to admire.

Students can see Dr. Manette evolving into a present and caring father.
photos drawn by Hannah McIntosh

While all the previous books have had a mixture of good and bad in each of the fathers, there is no denying that A Tale of Two Cities presents us with a father who is good in every sense of the word. He is a good doctor, a good citizen, a good husband, and, when finally given the chance to be, a good father. He devotes his later life to making Lucie happy--going so far as to not only forgive a wrong he'd never thought he'd be able to, but also to defend the descendant of that wrong because he could see the love between his daughter and Darnay. He knows that people are not black and white and that children should not be held accountable for the sins of their fathers.

In saving the best for last, the hasty generalization that all our fictional fathers as bad is dismantled. Hans Hubermann repeatedly puts himself at risk by standing up for injustice--painting over Jewish slurs, offering bread to a starving Jew as he marches down the street, and harboring a young Jewish man to make good on a promise. Aside from being a human that epitomizes a good man, he is the model for a wonderful father. It is Hans that allows Liesel to grow in every way imaginable. It is Hans who teaches her to read and who shows her that humans have the capacity for evil, but so many more have the capacity, and propensity, for good. He helps her grieve the loss of her family and opens her eyes and heart to love again. It is his strength that allows Liesel to keep moving forward after the bombing of Himmel Street. He is a man among men.

Everyone, real or fictional, wants to believe his or her dad is Superman--and we all do to some extent. As children, we do not believe that our dad has any weaknesses, and we can believe so fiercely in his invincibility because we're kids and do not know of all the stresses, anxieties and vulnerabilities that occupy space in his mind. It isn't until we get older, when we start to see dad as a man separate from the person who kissed skinned knees or drove the monsters from under our beds, that we can see the cracks in his armor. But just because he is human--flawed and imperfect as the word implies--he is no less a wonderful father.

Our real dads deserve accolades for the everyday feats they accomplish without armor, capes or superpowers. We recognize their human qualities and understand they're doing the best they can with the tools they have at their disposal. It is easy to condemn from afar, and much more difficult to strive for understanding--to look at the whole picture and see a person's motivations or limitations--before making our final judgment.  In the words of another great fictional father, Atticus Finch, "You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view...until you climb into his skin and walk around in it" (Lee). 

Dads, both fictional and real, deserve as much.

Works Cited:

Lee, Harper. To Kill a Mockingbird. Philadelphia: Lippincott, 1960. Print.

Smith, Betty. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. New York: Harper Perennial, 2001. Print. 

Writing is not easy

Since my last post, I’ve been brainstorming what to write about this week. I keep coming up short. My problem is that there are so many ideas, concerns, lists, and thoughts swirling through my brain right now that it is hard to pick an area on which to focus.

Then I remembered learning about one of Don Murray’s writing tenets (if you don’t know who Don Murray is, you soon will. I’ll talk about him quite a bit in class, and on this blog I’m sure, throughout the year). Whenever you get stuck, just remember: to write, you just have to say one thing.

My one thing I want you to know? Writing is not easy.

Often times people--whether they are students learning to navigate the process of writing, or adults who feel their time to learn the process has come and gone--get hung up on being a “bad” writer because they don’t think they have something to say. I am guilty of this myself. It is one of the reasons I was so hesitant to take on blogging. But then I remember the whole point of this blog is to model writing for my students—the good, bad, fun, difficult, and messy, as well as the feeling of relief and accomplishment that comes along with writing something you didn’t think was going to turn out anywhere near “good enough.” Good enough will depend on your audience and purpose as well as on your own sense of what you feel is acceptable.

For me, the majority of what I’ve written is barely good enough because I am my own worst critic. But I’ve learned that I have to let that critic go so that I don’t get in my way. Saying just one thing becomes pretty difficult when you’re always second-guessing yourself.

Because you may not feel you are measuring up to your own idea of good enough, writing takes dedication. “You need to put your butt in the chair” as Don Murray would say. (Two mentions in one post!)  But it also takes perseverance because even when you find that one thing to say, it often comes out pretty messy and in need of polishing. At this stage you can either give up, claiming you are a “bad” writer, or you can stick with it until you feel that sense of accomplishment and relief I mentioned earlier.

As we enter into the new school year, I am hoping that if you count yourself in the former category, we’ll be able to develop your skills so that you can confidently become the latter. And to those of you who believe writing is easy, great! I can’t wait to watch you challenge yourself to take risks in your writing and push yourselves to the next level.

Get those pencils sharpened and pens poised. We have many pages to fill, and “miles to go before [we] sleep” (Frost line 15).

Works Cited

Frost, Robert. "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening." PoemHunter.com. N.p., 17 Jan. 2012. Web. 2 Sept. 2013.

For you, Class of 2018

You're going to get a great deal of advice over the next few weeks. Whenever you tell someone that you're a freshman in high school, inevitably you'll hear the following:

• Enjoy high school. The next four years are going to fly by!
• Even freshman year counts for college, so don't slack off!
• The pool is on the fifth floor. (This is the only piece of advice here that won't be said in an enthusiastic tone, rather with a smirk on the faces of the speaker and his/ her cronies.)

I wish I could say that the advice I'm going to extend were less cliche, or more profound than the above, but I can't. Though you may hear it from many other people, please keep it tucked in whichever mental file you review every now and then: be you.

I had the pleasure of seeing Wicked at the Boston Opera House last year. Though I enjoy The Wizard of Oz, I don't claim to be a super enthusiastic viewer of the movie. I like it, but I don't go crazy when it's on TV. (I save my excitement for the likes of Elf, Steel Magnolias, or any of the Bourne trilogy.)

Anyway, I love musicals, I like The Wizard of Oz, and everyone I've ever met goes crazy over Wicked. It did not disappoint. It wasn't just that there are scenes of boarding school reminiscent of Hogwarts or that the music is fabulous that made me love the show. It was Elphaba, the "wicked" witch, who made me love the show.

She's green, she's a pariah because she's green, and even though it is hard, she embraces her verdigris as well as a teen trying to fit in can. I don't want to write any spoilers, but she stays true to her beliefs even amidst some fierce opposition. As I watched the other characters shun Elphaba, and saw her pick herself up--or try to dance her blues away--I thought of you all and hoped you'd all be your own versions of Elphaba.

Whatever your "oddity" might be--your offbeat ideas, your atypical fashion, or whatever might set you apart--do not bow to others' thoughts about what normal or cool is. By the way, I have some authority on this topic. As a freshman I once busted out the African Anteater Ritual from Can't Buy Me Love at a dance attended by all four grades. (Ask your parents...or YouTube it if you don't know why that might be kind of strange.)

What makes being a high school teacher so much fun is that I get to know each of my students' unique personalities and learn from perspectives I might never have considered. As Miranda Lambert says, "ever since the beginning to keep the world spinning it takes all kinds of kinds..."

For a rich classroom community, the more diverse the better. Conversations go deeper and class always goes by much faster. So don't stifle who you are because it might please others or garner you favor with a certain crowd. You'll find your niche.

Oh, and enjoy. These next four years are going to fly by!