Hooray for erasers

My favorite book store is Circle Books in St. Armand's Circle, a hip (although getting a tad touristy) little shopping district sandwiched between Sarasota and Long Boat Key.  Every time I walk out of Circle Books, I'm either empty-handed, having sternly reminded myself of the hundreds of books I already own and have not read, or I've got a bag or two and a great, big smile.  Good to support the independents, no?  (I'm not knocking amazon -- I happily buy books from any seller with a great selection.)

Last time I visited, I was with two of my favorite people. One was sitting on the floor of the travel section, his long legs criss-crossed and a stack of fantasy destinations in his lap. The other leaned against the check-out counter, her glasses sliding down her nose as she seriously discussed the merits of various young adult titles with the kind woman perched on a stool on the other side of the counter.

Me? I was hanging out in the children's books.

My latest find? The Eraserheads (Kate Banks and Boris Kulikov).

Here are a couple of lines from the story that make me smile:

• Often a letter was too large, or sometimes too small.
• But suddenly, the boy ran out of space.
• "Hooray for mistakes," cried the owl.

The strength of this story, though, comes in its illustrations.  All of the action  takes place on Max's desk (one I'd love to recreate), and it's clear, even amidst the math and vocabulary homework spread across the surface, that the boy's true love is art.  Or maybe it's imagination ... or adventure.

I wonder what my true love is?  Or my students'?  Or those two lovely people I spent the afternoon with at Circle Books?  What do the eraserheads love?  What is their purpose?  How about mine ... and yours?  And is a mistake something that should be crumpled up and thrown on the floor?  What are the consequences of ignoring them?  Can -- or should -- they be redeemed?

Most importantly ... if I was an eraser, would I be an alligator, owl, or pig?  Got it -- turtle.

Time to poke out my head and pour more coffee.  And then, perhaps drive down to Long Boat Key for another visit to Circle Books.

I just met Harold

And isn't he quite the cutie-patootie?  I'm referring, of course, to Harold and the Purple Crayon.  On the inside flap of the picture book where Harold lives, the audience level says, "Ages 3-7."  Hmmm, I think we could squeak a lot of thinking out of our older students with this little charmer.

Take, for example, page one: "One evening, after thinking it over for some time, Harold decided to go for a walk in the moonlight."  Now, here's a superb case of illustrations working in perfect unison with the text. If we had only the text, we might think, "Okay, interesting, let's turn in the page and see what happens." But instead, we look at the picture and see a child whose head easily comprises over 40% of his chubby, pint-sized body.  He looks like a standing eight-month old, right down to his footy-pajama'd toes.  So, before we turn the page, we laugh. A baby "thinking it over for some time?"  Funny.  And a good chance to talk about irony with our older students.

And then things get totally bizarre.  Every time Harold wants or needs something, he simply draws it with, I'm not afraid to say, his rather phallic-looking purple crayon (yes, he even holds it at "that" angle).  No moonlight?  Simply draw it.  Hungry?  Nine pies should do the job.  Can't find your way home?  Just draw home, window, and bed, and crawl right in.

Oh, the places we can go with this ... stream of consciousness?  Existentialism?  Sexual symbolism?  The hero's journey cycle?

In the hands of a mature classroom engaging in serious literature study, this book offers a wealth of possibilities for sophisticated conversation. Heck, scratch that.  Why not a rowdy group of ninth graders not sure how to establish a direction for their lives?  Or an art class where the kids are afraid to make their first mark on all that white space?

Glad to meet you, Harold.

A tidbit

I finished my independent study paper a few days ago.  There were days when I thought it was the most boring lump of tripe I'd ever read.  Other times, it seemed fairly interesting and, well, not bad for an old lady in graduate school.  No grade on it yet, but I believe today is THE day.

In any case, I thought I would post a piece of it that moved me when I wrote it. It is the conclusion of the section that addresses how early reading experiences have an impact on the use of picture books in high school.  I'd been tra-la-laaaing through sources that discussed reading stages in children, adolescents, young adults, etc.  Each stage so nicely builds upon the previous one, until voila, we have a fully formed adult who relishes all sorts of reading experiences. But what troubled me were the mental images of my students who had not had any decent early reading experiences at all. No adult took them to the library for story time or folded them up in their lap to point to the pictures, "do" voices, and sigh at the end of the story.  These kids ... well, they probably arrived in kindergarten pissed.  And by the time I got them?  They had figured out how to make dang sure I was so distracted by their nutty behavior that I wouldn't notice they were terrified I was going to figure out some truths about their reading.

Anyway, the independent study paper was terribly formal. But, in a couple of places, I shared my own thoughts.  And here was one of them:
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Many of the students who have walked into my classroom did not encounter positive early reading experiences. That loss is incalculable and most keenly observed in their deep resistance to independent reading. Time and time again, I’ve seen exactly those students open their eyes in wonder (and sometimes sadness, too) when I read aloud a picture book. During independent reading, they furtively reach for the picture books on my shelves. And when my classroom is empty but unlocked, it is the picture books that most often mysteriously disappear.

To Grow Pale

My research has unearthed a TON of picture books suitable for high school use. One title that keeps cropping up is Roberto Innocenti’s Rose Blanche (1985).  Sunday, this book and I spent some quality time together—and I know it won’t be our last visit.

I often tell my AP Lit students to carefully consider the title of a book.  Allow those musings to float around in your minds as you read, I tell them, and then, when you are finished reading, perhaps some interesting insights will occur to you.  And certainly be ready to revise your initial speculations.

I tried this technique with Rose Blanche and want to share here how that impacted my reading.  So, my thoughts about the title as they occurred to me …

On the cover, there’s a girl looking out of a window. I realize Rose Blanche must the girl’s name.  These are old-fashioned names, ones a grandmother might have, yet she’s young.  So the book is set, perhaps 50 or more years ago.  Other details on the cover confirm this, as she appears to be in some sort of a makeshift military hospital, and the uniforms of the wounded men place the story in either WWI or WWII.

Then, I began to read and to look at the pictures. Rose Blanche appears in almost every illustration.  And with one exception, she always wears a large, pink bow in her hair.  “Ah,” I think, “Pink!”  In French, the word for pink is rose.  So now I ponder the word blanche … and voila, the French word for white is blanch/blanche.  Suspicions confirmed; Innocenti is asking us, though his title and illustrations, to think about color in connection with his story.

I keep reading …

The illustrations at the end of the story verify my theory that color matters.  Here’s why: throughout the book, Innocenti relies almost exclusively on browns and dark greens—specifically, army green and dirty snow brown.  Although most pages contain a tiny bit of a surprising pastel, the vast majority of every page is given over to muddy, hopeless colors. But this is not true of the illustrations on the last two pages. Although there is still plenty of green, it’s new-life spring green.  In fact, the last sentence of the text reads, “Spring sang.” And now, too, the pastels abound.  Wildflowers dot the fields and wind up their way around the fences that have, at last, been destroyed.

So … a bit more ruminating on the colors.  In the face of the horrors of war, Rose Blanche exists as a tiny, bright spot, much like the bits of color scattered throughout the text.  More interesting ideas could certainly evolve from this line of thinking (the importance of maintaining hope in the face of evil, for example, or how beauty impacts survival).

Yet, a new idea began to nag at me by the end of the story.  And it, too, connects with color.  The word “blanch” also means to grow pale.  Because of the privations of war, Rose certainly does grow paler and thinner as the story progresses.  And too, she gives  most of her food to the children in a nearby concentration camp.  So the reader literally witnesses Rose Blanche blanch.  Eventually (spoiler alert), she grows pale because dies.  A sweet rose of a girl turns white in death.

Rose Blanche sacrifices not only her food, but also her safety.  Perhaps Rose Blanche’s sacrifice saves some of the children in the story; we do not know for sure.  But we do know, I think, that Innocenti wants his readers to consider the idea that not all soldiers wear uniforms. 

Just by contemplating the title and its implications, readers of all levels and abilities have much to gain from this story.  I have barely scratched at the surface of Innocenti’s brave book.  At the very least, in my classroom, I will pair it with Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms. I find it incredibly interesting that both authors use extremely spare style to address the notion of innocence, sacrifice, and loss.  And both writers offer up a wealth of clues to rich meaning through the simple words in their titles.

It's time, it's time ... did she just say it's time?

There's a great stanza in a Veggie Tales song called "Promised Land" that goes like this:

It's time, it's time, did he just say it's time? (boom, boom, boom, boom)
We didn't have a lot of fun in the desert.
We didn't have a lot of fun in the sand.
But saddle up your cow and fall behind us now,
Because we're goin' to the Promised Land.

Whenever it's time for me to get cooking on something, I think of those lyrics.  Yep, it's time. And we're going to the Promised Land ... the land of Lit. Review.

The time has come at last for me to write a THE paper that synthesizes all I've learned about using picture books in high school classrooms. I have a fat, white binder that is bursting with my notes from 27 sources, notes that are contained on my brand new iMac, my old-but-reliable Sony laptap, and a couple of flash drives (that I hope I can put my hands on in the next few minutes).  I have sections of it written in various places, but pieces I have yet to draft.  All told, I believe the paper will exceed 30 pages, and it might be a heck of a lot closer to 50.

Here are the sections the review will include (but not be limited to and not necessarily in this order):

• Introduction explaining how I got involved in this project
• Definition of picture book; this will actually be a fairly lengthy section, as the components of a picture book are many and complex.
• Discussion on the importance of calling picture books "picture books" (I've run across some pretty silly alternatives, my favorite of which is "everybody books" -- uh, no.)
• How to choose quality picture books
• DOs and DON'Ts for using them in high school classrooms
• Theories about why they work; this section will include a description of efferent and aesthetic reading events, as well as read-alouds and visual learning.  Oh, and also situated perspective (yes, I'm perusing my fat, white binder right now). OH!  And also the stages of reading!
• Cross-curricular lesson applications (This will also be a pretty chunky section.)
• Teacher anecdotes (May or may not use -- have not decided on this yet; if so I'll spread them throughout; they'd certainly add interest to the paper, but they lack science.)

This is the basic idea. Lots to write. And I think it will be a whole heap of fun. I'm saddling up my cow ...

I wasn't going to cry ...

But I did.


I just read Pink and Say (Polacco, 1994).


This is a story about two injured boys fighting in the Civil War on the Union side.  One is white, and one is black.  One wants to continue fighting, and one does not.  One is educated, and one is not. One will lose everything, and one will gain an entirely new way to look at the world ... and an unforgettable story.


Here's the line that got me: "I know this story to be true because ..."


And here's the other line that got me: "This is the hand, that has touched the hand ..."


Read this book to your students.


Pink and Say has obvious teaching implications for American History. But I'd consider it, too, for:

• language arts, to study dialect and narrative structure
• a war unit for any social studies or literature class
• studying differences (relevant in any subject)
• the psychology of fear
• health sciences

This book would make an incredible companion piece to A Long Way Gone, Memoirs of a Boy Soldier.  Publisher's Weekly begins their starred review thus: "This absorbing account by a young man who, as a boy of 12, gets swept up in Sierra Leone's civil war goes beyond even the best journalistic efforts in revealing the life and mind of a child abducted into the horrors of warfare."


Our students often tell us they want to read books that are relevant.  And we know from experience they love to have their minds opened to new ideas.  Pink has something to say to us.


Have tissues ready.

Well! Then I'll share it here instead

Several days ago, I began the process of submitting a proposal to the International Reading Association for presenting at their conference in the spring. Cool, huh?  My thesis advisor suggested I go for it, or I honestly would never have considered myself qualified. Anyhow, about a week ago, I went to the appropriate web site and wrote down the questions for which I would need to write responses.

Then, I freaked out. FREAKED OUT!  The issue is that, the number of characters allowed for each prompt is high -- really, really high. They vary from 5,000 to 10,000 characters, for, oh, um,  like a dozen or so questions. Friends, that's a LOT of writing.

Dr. Wellman nicely told me to chillax and assured me that the proposal reviewers like brief submissions (thank you, Dr. Wellman).  So I spent a couple of days crafting what I hope is an excellent proposal.

Funny thing, though ... today, when I went to upload it (a rock solid 33 hours before the deadline, I want to point out), one of the prompts I'd written down had just disappeared.  Last week, there was a section called Classroom Implications (or, at least, I thought there was).  Today, nada.  No Classroom Implications.  Zip.

But, since I took the time to write an answer to that section, I'm going to share it here instead.  (And, Dr. Wellman, if you're reading this, you'll see something shockingly close to it in my lit. review.  We'll call that "efficiency.")

So, here are the classroom implications for the session I hope to present at the International Reading Association conference:

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The potential impact to classroom experiences for students and teachers alike is significant, most importantly in that picture books, when well integrated into unit lessons, offer pathways to deeper emotional connections and higher order thinking for high school students.  There are many reasons why this is so, including:

·      Picture books provide a way to connect with highly visual learners (Carr et al, 2001).

·      Well-chosen picture books provide background knowledge and context (Carr et al, 2001).

·      When illustrating a real-world concept, they provide a situated perspective for students, connecting classroom content to life outside of high school (Putnam and Borko, 2000).

·      When read aloud to students, picture books create a bond between the reader and the student that reinforces the power of words (Giorgis, 1999).

·      Picture books provide non-threatening access to tougher concepts (Gewertz, 2009).

·      Using picture books to increase vocabulary acquisition is effective because it encourages students to discover words based on their perceptions and experiences (Polette, 1989).

·      Teachers report that the personal connections students make (i.e., experiencing revulsion at disturbing historical events, recalling impactful memories, identifying dreams and hopes, bridging cultural differences) are unique to picture book use (Matthews et al, 1999).

·      Picture books tap into students’ earliest reading experiences, thus offering an aesthetic reading event (Rosenblatt, 1982).

·      Picture books have a unique power to create experiences and summon feelings (Florida Online Reading Professional Development, 2006).

These practice-grounded theories show that, a classroom environment that includes picture book use, taps into a compelling learning vehicle.  Once teachers make a connection with students using picture books, a connection facilitated by mutual trust, sharing early reading experiences, comprehension of an accessible text, and enjoyable engagement, they find that students’ minds are particularly ready for the link to rigorous concepts.

---

And there you go.  The proposal is finished, and I am a happy woman.

Got it

Here's the final version of my guiding research question:

How does the supplemental use of picture books in high school curriculum affect students' engagement and learning?

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Thanks for your all of your comments and suggestions, friends!

The Secret Remedy

I don't know where I found The Secret Remedy Book (Cates 2003), but here comes a Precious Alert ... it's so sweet.

A tall girl named Lolly, who looks like she's about 10 years old (and a lot, incidentally, like a very sweet girl I  know of the same age named Madeleine), gets to stay with her quirky Auntie Zep for a whole month. No Mom. No Dad. A whole month.

You guessed it ... she gets a little bit sad when her parents drive away, and then she gets a lot sad, and then she has herself a nice, big, head-in-hands kind of cry.

Gosh, I can relate.  First, my friend Madeleine is, right now, at this moment, at her very first away camp.  I'm proud of her.

Second, oh, who hasn't felt the ouch of loneliness?  The kind of loneliness that nothing can fix other than a good head-in-hands kind of cry?

But not to worry. Auntie Zep, with her reading glasses, overalls, and pink headband is not the kind of aunt to be daunted by a crying 10 year old. She knows just what to do. (Wouldn't it be nice if we all had an Auntie Zep?)

After a great deal of rummaging around in a old trunk in the attic (a trunk that contains sepia-colored photographs, bundles of love letters, foreign coins, dried flowers, a teddy bear, squares of lace, antique jewelry, a tea cup ... oh, such treasures), Lolly and Auntie Zep unearth The Secret Remedy Book.

Because I can't resist, I'll share here the remedies to Lolly's heartache.  They unfold slowly in the text, and the reader experiences their discovery with Lolly, one sweet remedy at a time. Here they are:

1.  Drink one glass of apple juice. You must drink it so carefully that you can almost taste the very apple tree that made the apples that made the juice.

2.  Plant a seed in good earth.  You must do something sneaky to keep the seed safe.

3.  Take a walk as far as you can. You must see something that you have never noticed before.

4.  Feed a wild thing.  You must make a solemn promise that you will always do everything you can to protect it from hunger and harm.

5.  Write a cheerful letter to some dear soul. You must put something unexpected in the envelope.

6.  Read in peace and quiet from a favorite book.  You must find one special part of the book that is so wonderful that you feel like reading it again and again.

7.  Dream of doing great things.  You must think of one small, great thing you can do tomorrow.

See?  Precious Alert.

The high school relevance piece is not difficult. Imagine a teacher who understands that some of our kids come to us having had life beat the stuffing out of them. They haven't had a head-in-hands cry in so long, they forgot what it feels like to feel. Or, they had a head-in-hands cry just that morning when someone said something unkind.  Or, life hasn't been so tough yet ... but loneliness is waiting for them in a dorm room in the fall.

So, I think I might begin by asking students to journal about a time when they felt lonely.  And then we'd read about Lolly. And then I would ask kids -- and, gosh, this could be powerful -- to craft their own seven remedies. Before beginning, we'd look at the characteristics of Auntie Zep's remedies (i.e., they are personal, they respect nature, they encourage introspection, they also look outward, they are tactile).  Although I would not ask students to come up with remedies that mirror the author's values, I would encourage them to imagine remedies that embody their values. For some students, that would mean exploring and discovering what their values are.  Mmmm, refreshing idea -- like a nice, long drink of cold apple juice.

Imagine that ... a roomful of high school kids exploring what kinds of healthy behaviors they could use to deal with the pain they experience.

So, instructional classroom implications? In a literature class, a connection to a text like Wuthering Heights, perhaps, in which the characters deal with pain with anti-remedies ... and the consequences that ensue.  Or, in European history or politics, a look at Rousseau's concept of natural man and his directive to "Know thyself."  Or, in psychology, the connection between a healthy environment and a healthy emotional life.

Lots of options from Auntie Zep, to be sure. I'm going to get going on my own list of seven remedies. Number one?

Wear slippers with sheep on them.

The Back Story

My first day in the classroom was late August 2002.  Because I had no formal teacher training, my first day in the classroom was literally my first day in the classroom. I knew two things: I needed to immediately connect with the twelfth grade language arts students who walked into room 132. And I had to fill up four 90-minute blocks without anyone setting a backpack on fire.

I was terrified.

It was pretty much touch-and-go.  I got a lot of hostile, challenging retorts, but some hopeful smiles, too.  Most of my efforts at discipline fell woefully flat, right alongside my silly attempts at humor.  No backpacks were set on fire, but unfortunately, no minds were, either. 

But several remarkable things happened that day.  All of them changed the trajectory of my life, and all of them shaped my teaching into something that, most days, I'm proud of. One event in particular is the reason for my independent study and this here blog-er-ooo.

Although no one told me that connecting with my students on a personal level would build their trust and provide a safe place for them to learn, I instinctively knew this. So my big grand finale for my day one lesson was this: I read my students Oh, The Places You’ll Go (Geisel, 1990).  Before I read, I asked my kids to think about the shape they wanted their senior year of high school to take.  I said something like, “You’ll never forget your senior year.  What this year looks like is almost entirely in your control. As I read, think about how this story connects with your story.”

Jorge yawned and asked if he could put his head down on the desk. Linda rolled her eyes.  Katherine clapped her hands and asked if she could sit on the floor in front of my podium.

I said yes to Jorge and Katherine, and tried to make eye contact with Linda. And then I began to read.

Something utterly magical happened.  Every one of those young men and women fully engaged in listening to and experiencing the text.  There was not a sound in the room whatsoever, except my voice reading the words and the rustle of the pages as I turned them.  Kids strained in their seats to see the pictures.  Breathing slowed, mouths hung open, bodies stilled ... well, you get the idea. I've described it on this blog a time or two.

My students' minds were not still, though.  They were experiencing what Rosenblatt calls an aesthetic reading event, some of them perhaps for the very first time.  I had chills. And extreme gratitude to the teaching gods that were smiling down on all of us.

The next day, as the kids sauntered or burst into my room, many asked if I was going to read them another story. “Indeed, yes,” I replied, and so began our mutual love affair with picture books.

After seven years of using picture books with regular, honors, and advanced placement students, with students with learning disabilities, and with students struggling to learn English, I had a theory or two about why picture books worked and how to use them effectively. But until a few months ago, my theories were just that – theories. I had little research-based knowledge of the underpinnings that supported my use of these texts in high school curriculum.  So, in the process of writing my master’s thesis, I decided to learn why picture books work and to share my findings with teachers interested in improving students’ literacy.

And now the real work begins. My research is complete. (Well, it will never be truly complete. But I think I have a pretty good sense of what's been written about using picture books in high school classrooms.) I have read about and formulated and agreed with and disagreed with theories about why picture books work. I have lists and lists and lists of picture books recommended by teachers and teacher instructors from all over the world. 

I have superb advice from my advisor.

I have a new computer. 

I have a comfy chair and a good cup of coffee and sheep on my feet. 

It's time to write.

Jam on Bread

Back to Rosenblatt ...

One of the brilliant things Rosenblatt discovered about teaching reading is something she calls the Jam on Bread approach. Back in the early 80s, she postulated that, for decades, educators had been primarily teaching kids to read efferently (that is, carry something away from the reading event), largely ignoring the aesthetic aspect of reading (the event that is experienced when an author, reader, and text come together). In her view, aesthetic reading had been understood as a nice goal to maybe someday attain, one that teachers could slap onto reading, if they had the time or inclination, once kids had mastered efferent reading.

She calls this Jam on Bread. In effect, bread equals efferent reading, and jam equals aesthetic reading. (Clearly, jam isn't necessary -- it's sweet, pretty, and yummy, but gosh darn it, it's not bread.)

When I read her views on this, my heart sped up.  Truly.  I was so excited that I started to read too fast, and then I had to go back ... a whole bunch of times.

Here's why.

I think that kids -- itty, bitty, teeny, tiny kids -- read aesthetically naturally. An aesthetic reading experience is what we live the first time someone shares a great story with us.  We bring our memories, our senses, and our wide open minds to reading.  We gaze at the pictures, we listen to the narrative, we stare at the words and wonder what they heck they are. We have an entirely aesthetic experience. And we immediately clamor, "Again!"

It is winsome and pure.  It is full of hope and delight and pleasure.  It is entirely aesthetic.

And then, as children progress through various grade levels, they move from a lot of aesthetic reading in early grades to almost no aesthetic reading by high school.  Upper grade teachers, for many reasons, focus on teaching kids to read efferently.  I'm not placing any blame or pointing any fingers. We've got to get our kids ready for all sorts of high stakes assessments and the next phases of their lives. In every scenario I can imagine for my students for their lives after shaking our principal's hand and smiling for the photographer, efferent reading is essential.

But this exclusive focus on efferent reading is why, I believe, when I open a picture book and read to my students, magic happens.  Magic! Because I am returning my students (or introducing them) to experiential reading.  Their brilliant, lovely minds open and engage. They laugh, they sigh, they get very still, they smile, they cry, and they clamor, "Again!"

And then ... well, anything can happen.

Not to mention ...

I'm still thinking about the uses of Little Red Riding Hood in the classroom.  An idea that occurred to me while I was shaving my legs (why do we get our best ideas in the shower?) would be to use the book to explore the concept of "acceptable" reading material.  I imagine that an elementary school teacher would never think of reading a book to his kiddos in which the main character and her beloved grandmother are eaten alive.  Yet, this book was classic fairy tale stuff for centuries. What changed? Why?  These questions, and others like them, would facilitate interesting classroom discussions at the high school level on psychology, political correctness, child development, parenting, education ... all sorts of goodness.

Still thinking. But done shaving.

Creepy!

In 1983, Holiday House published a new, but faithful, version of Little Red Riding Hood (by the Brothers Grimm), retold and illustrated by Trina Schart Hyman. It won a Caldecott Honor, ensuring its subsequent appearance on my bookshelf.

I'm not sure why I forgot this: the Little Red Riding Hood story is creepy. And dark and violent, too.

First, Hyman loads her version with Puritan-like word choices, such as wicked, sinner, and saved. The antagonist displays all sorts of crafty, gluttonous characteristics. There are religious images, too: the girl takes a meal of bread and wine to her ailing grandmother, a last supper she doesn't get to partake in until after she's resurrected. And the last words of the story evoke a strong sense of moral expectations and judgment. Even though Red Riding Hood thoughtlessly gave the wolf explicit directions straight to grandmother's house and then wandered around gathering flowers for her, actions that would eventually lead to their doom, she comforts herself with these thoughts: "She had at least minded her manners."

But wait, there's more. Here are my favorite, albeit rather violent lines, from the story:

- " ... he carefully cut open the wolf's stomach."

- "At first cut, he saw the red velvet cloak, and after a few more slashes ..."

- "The huntsman skinned the wolf and took the pelt home to nail on his door."

Gross! And yet, even more religious imagery.

So, where does Little Red Riding Hood lead teachers and students? Obviously, a fabulous discussion on religious symbolism would work well, especially paired with, say, The Scarlet Letter (check out the "red" in both titles!), any early American literature, or Toni Morrison's Beloved.

The book is also well known and much-loved for its remarkable illustrations, most certainly the reason for the Caldecott Honor. The textile depictions alone are worth minute scrutiny. The author's use of sunlight and shadow support her themes, too, plus her detailed renderings of plant life would make a botanist go wild. (I'm not a botanist, but my amateurish gardener self fell hard for Hyman's flora -- think Beatrix Potter in Germanic colors.) All that is to say, I see fine uses of this book in a biology or art class, too.

Thinking or experiencing ... Why not both?

I'm reading the seminal article by Louise Rosenblatt called "The Literary Transaction: Evocation and Response." Rosenblatt has much to say that directly applies to my research. And she has much to say that will permanently shape the way I teach.

Almost every idea she proposes is new to me, and to put it mildly, I am excited about what I'm reading.

I want to respond to one area of her article, though, that slightly troubles me. I am probably 100% wrong, but my own classroom experiences, brief as they have been, bear describing in relation to an assertion she makes.

Let me explain.

First, two definitions from Rosenblatt:

Efferent reading experiences -- the reader comes to the task with a purpose in mind and carries away something from the interaction with the text (an opinion, skill, knowledge, etc.).

Aesthetic reading experiences -- the reader brings her background, memories, and feelings to the reading experience and in so doing, creates a new experience. We might, as its most basic level, think of this as pleasure reading.

Back to Rosenblatt. She is troubled by the use of stories to teach efferent reading skills. She calls it a deception to pique a child’s interest in a narrative and then ask questions about it, implying that only an efferent reading was necessary. She would like to see literature read as an end unto itself, for its value in presenting images of life, entertaining the reader, and introducing new places and people. She criticizes following up reading with factual questions or moving the reader toward analyzing what has just been read.

My response ...

This past year, I twice read children’s stories to my classes with no “after” reading activity planned, and no link whatsoever to any concept. In one case, I read Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus to my AP kids. The loved it. They laughed out loud. The looks on their faces were genuine delight. When I was finished reading and they were finished laughing and responding and demanding me to read it again, I put it aside. I attempted to transition to the next activity, but the kids looked really troubled. Aeisha said, “Wait, why did we read that?” I said, “For fun. Did you like it?” I got many affirming yesses and giggles. But Aeisha persisted (and many students nodded in agreement), “But is there some connection to something else we’re going to read or do?” I said, “Nope!” and moved the kids on to another lesson. But it was very clear to me that, although some of the kids were fine with the pleasure-only aspect of the book, others wanted to process it, discuss it, or connect it to another text or skill.

In a second instance, I had about 30 minutes to fill with my newspaper students at the end of a class late in the year. They had put the final issue of the newspaper to bed, and because many students were absent taking AP exams, it was not a good day to continue with final project presentations. So I pulled out Tales from Outer Suburbia and starting reading. Initially, the response was superb. Kids moved their chairs to better see the pictures, and they clamored for more stories after I’d read the first couple. But then, at least half the class got very restless. I know they loved the stories and connected to them on a purely enjoyment-based level – but only for about 15 minutes. When I didn’t do something with the stories, they got very bored.

Rosenblatt postulates that my students’ responses are explained by the emphasis on the efferent aspect of reading that the entire educational system has engaged in for decades. And she laments the result: the system “does not produce many readers capable of handling their initial responses or relating them to the text” (Theory into Practice, 1982, 274).

And while I partially agree, I think another reason explains my students’ restlessness. The human brain, I believe, wants to think, not just experience. We have an intrinsic desire to connect, predict, categorize, and speculate. And to ignore those innate responses in favor of a purely experiential reaction to literature is to ignore much of the richness the academic setting can, in the hands of an expert educator, offer.

Honey ... Honey ... LION!

This sweet picture book, subtitled A Story from Africa, arrived in a big Amazon box on Thursday -- about 20 minutes before I was scheduled to leave (fittingly) for a long weekend in Longboat Key.  Only two more books would fit in my book bag, but (ahem), I'd ordered 13.  What to do, what to do? After a super fast glance at my pile, I snatched up Miss Rumphius and Honey ... Honey ... LION!

SO glad I did.

I have to explain something ... I rarely know what the books I buy will be about. I choose them for reasons other than an interest in the plot. Very often the title catches my attention, and other times, I'm intrigued by a snippet I saw about a books' illustrations, the background of the author, an interesting setting ... well, honestly, who knows what I'm thinking when I pick up a book?  Just yesterday, I added a title to my "must-buy" journal: What Color is Caesar?  I know absolutely nothing about the book, other than these two things: there's a black-and-white spotted dog on the cover, and the page I randomly opened to shows Caesar (evidently the spotted dog) asking a guru whether he, Caesar is black with white spots ... or white with black spots?  Well seriously, how can I resist deep theological questions from a spotted dog?

Back to Honey ... Honey ... LION!  When I saw the title, I pictured Mr. and Mrs. Critter at a picnic.  Mr. Critter is absorbed in reading the sports section of the St. Pete Times while Mrs. Critter busily arranges food, chatters about not-much, and enjoys the sunshine.  Suddenly, she spots a lion.  All she can think to do is try to get Mr. Critter's attention by swatting at him and sputtering, "Honey ... Honey!"

I was wrong. 

This delightful story is rife with critters, but none married. Yep, there is a lion, and yep, the exclamation point in the title is warranted. The Botswana-based legend retold in the picture book is funny, a little wicked, and highly instructive.  It goes something like this: "If you don't share the honey, the honeyguide will lead you to a lion." Intrigued?  I hope so. This book is fabulous and well worth adding to your library.

Some instructional ideas:

Thematically, the book would pair well with other texts concerning greed, trust, communication, fear, and community.  A slew of writing prompts practically announce themselves. The book is an obvious choice for teaching animal fables (which almost every literary culture includes).  And this might be a stretch, but I'm intrigued by the possibility of pairing this book with the "Prologue" to The Canterbury Tales.  They both offer a brilliant cross-section of an entire sociological group, and in both stories, much can be deduced through characterization.  My kiddos struggle with this second idea; maybe a look at Honey as a pre-read would set the stage?

In a science class, the book would make a great companion to lessons on symbiosis, cooperation, the delta ecosystem, and animal communication.

And it's impossible to ignore the possibilities this book poses for art classes.  I've been to Africa, and I laughed out loud as I turned the pages, marveling at the richness with which Jan Brett captured safari county.  She so perfectly rendered the swish-swish of the zebra moving through the tall, dry grass; the speckled, gossipy guinea hens with their bright, blue throats; and the friendly majesty of the baobab tree.  She framed every page with borders of beads, feathers, woven mats, braided animal hair, and cameo-sized portraits of the book's characters. What art teacher and student would not love to lean their heads together and marvel at Brett's works of art?

And don't even get me started on the possibilities for middle school social studies ...

Gosh, I'm glad I took this book to Longboat Key. And how nice to now meander over to my tall stack of new picture books. Let's see what Miss Rumphius has to say to high school students.

The research question

I've reached the point in my independent study when I need to formulate THE question. This is the basis for my fall research and THE answer will be my thesis. Honestly, I'm scared. There are about nine million directions I could happily take this project.  But it's time to make a commitment.  


Here are my drafts:


1. Does the use of picture books in high school English and social
studies classrooms affect students’ engagement with the lesson and
mastery of its objectives?

2. Does the use of picture books in high school English and social
studies classrooms affect students’ engagement with the lesson and
mastery of the teacher's instructional objectives?

3. Does the use of picture books in high school English and social
studies classrooms affect students’ qualitative and quantitative
response to the teacher's instructional objectives?

I drafted these yesterday morning and sent them to my advisor for her review and input. Yesterday, I liked number two the best. I think I still do.

Thoughts?

The art question

Ever since I clicked "Publish Post" after criticizing Peterson and Burke for their picture book/drama lesson, I've felt a little guilty. Let me explain ...

One of the things they did in the lesson was invite the school's art teacher into the classroom to teach the basic elements of visual design to their students. Since the authors are English teachers, I was baffled at that. Yes, the book was part of an inter-disciplinary unit designed to include art, history, and language arts. But for some reason, this aspect of the lesson troubled me. (I'm still not sure why, and I'm equally sure I'll keep mulling it over.)

But here's why I've felt a little guilty. I was critical of teaching artistic design in an English class ... but it is precisely that aspect of the lesson that aroused my own curiosity as a learner, even to the extent that I've applied some of what I learned from Peterson and Burke about design to picture books I've looked at since then.

Well.

So I want to share with you some of those design basics. And I want to confess that I checked a book out from the library called The Picturebook: Source and Resource for Art Education. I want to know more about issues of design in picture books.

Here's what I learned from Peterson and Burke. Design elements can be essentially categorized into line, shape, and color.

Line - the thickness and direction of the line suggest mood and emotion. Horizontal lines are intended to convey a sense of peace, serenity, or stability, whereas vertical lines offer suggest aspirations and ideals. Diagonal lines might indicate confusion or motion/activity.

Colors - the shades and intensities correspond to mood. Darker colors suggest gloom, danger, mystery, threat, or intense feeling. Lighter colors demonstrate lightness, joy, or tenderness.

Shape - Curved shapes convey nature or freedom, whereas defined shapes might mean rigidity or man-made objects.

Okay, with these basics in mind, it is possible to derive meaning from a quality picture book from an entirely new perspective. And if, as Peterson and Burke say, the visual arts can extend a student's grasp of "how plots and characters are developed," well, then that's a good thing.

One of the inarguables my research has surfaced is that the illustrations in a picture book are integral to the story's meaning. So, I guess it makes sense to teach students a few basic design elements. I know - saying "I guess" is not exactly an enthusiastic endorsement. I confess, I'm still struggling with whether to spend time on this in an English classroom.

But, I have to also confess, as a learner, I'm intrigued. And I want to know more. And, gee ... isn't that endorsement enough?

Non-negotiable

What is the one picture book you use in your classroom that you would not, under any circumstances, give up? For me ... The Giving Tree.

I use these titles pretty regularly, adding or subtracting one here or there:

- Oh, The Places You Will Go
- The Dot
- The Firekeeper's Son
- The Toy Boat
- Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus
- The Three Questions
- Tales from Outer Suburbia
- The Giving Tree

I use The Giving Tree as the culmination of a unit on theme. Wrestling with Silverstein's meaning -- well, it is indeed a wrestle. The test is so thick with implications that I can't skip it. And how students react to it would be an interesting study of its own. Most sigh and say something like, "How sad" or "How sweet." Some get angry. Some look peaceful. One young woman blurted out, "Why are people so awful?" and then she put her head in her hands and cried.

We can look at The Giving Tree from a number of perspectives -- relational, religious, literary, psychological, to name only a few of the obvious ones. It is the richness of these possibilities that add to its complexity and make it an irresistible teaching device.

So, I repeat my question: What is the one picture book you use in your classroom that you would not give up?

Getting Itchy

Yesterday, I watched someone read The Red Book and just observed. Here are his comments, in order:

Oh, a skyline. Big city.
You know, these water towers are used to manage fire.
Okay, let's read.
Hmmm ...
Oh, ...
(chuckle)
It's a map.
What ...?
(turned back a few pages, and then went back to where he'd left off)
Okay, this part is a dream.
There's more red here.
Uh-oh ...
(chuckle)
(and on last page of the book) Huh! A new story.

I'm definitely getting itchy to start the observation part of this research.

The Red Book

I would probably never have picked up The Red Book, had it not won a Caldecott Honor (any book that wins a Caldecott Honor is automatically coming home with me). The front page has no title -- just a child wrapped up in winter clothes carrying, you guessed it, a red book.

I knew this was a wordless book, so I opened it up thinking the story would be obvious (like the sublime, recently released The Lion & The Mouse, brilliantly illustrated by Jerry Pinkney).

Not so.

I turned a few pages, had to go back, went forward a few more pages again, but then had to go back, got to the end, and had to start all over.

Amazing. A book with no words, so complex, that a fairly well-read high school English teacher had to "read" it more than once -- and I'm still not sure I "get" it.

I think what I would do in a classroom is this (with some anxiety because I don't like teaching a lesson when I'm really not sure where it's going -- or even quite what I have in mind):

1. Tell students we're going to "read" a wordless picture book.
2. Ask them to take out their journals and begin writing by making some predictions based on the title and cover.
3. Ask for complete quiet in the room (I might play some soft music), explaining that I want every student to come to this text with no preconceived notions and to make their own, strictly independent interpretations.
4. Give students a minute or so to react, in their journals, to each page. (This book is plenty small enough to display using a document camera, thank goodness.)
5. Finally, put kids in small groups to share their journal entries with each other, and ask each group to be ready to share the group's single most "wow" observation with the rest of the class.
6. Once presentations are complete, students would write two things: a one-line summary of the story AND a one-line theme of the story.

As I think more on this, I'm wondering if The Red Book would work well as a companion to The Book Thief (thinking about the power of books to transform the reader -- or this case, transport the reader). And maybe, with my AP kids, we could look at this book along with Going After Cacciato to further investigate the very-fine-line between imagination and reality.

Or, another idea ... ask one of my school's superb art teachers to give us a brief lecture on illustration basics (i.e., how horizontal lines suggest peace, whereas vertical lines indicate aspirations), and then ask students to apply those basics to an interpretation of the text. This book would work amazingly well for this task.

Here's the moral of this not-very-well-thought-out post ... even the most seemingly simple picture book is rich with possibilities for stimulating students' thinking. And isn't that what we want to do? Get our kids to think deeply?

And I'm sure best practice proponents everywhere (and I'm most surely one) will cringe at this next statement, but here it is anyway ... Once in a while, it's okay to embark on a lesson that is loosely thought out and vague in direction. Much like opening a picture book with no preconceived notions in mind, perhaps the very greatest adventure awaits. That certainly is the case with a brave, imaginative girl who dares open The Red Book.

Bad, Bad Bunny Trouble

After a bit of ruminating, I admit that Burke and Peterson (the authors of the article I previously discussed) did get something quite right. Picture book selection is key in the process of choosing titles that will work in a secondary classroom.

The right books will have sophisticated themes (which is not to say sophisticated language or sophisticated plots, per se). Funny, cute, simple stories can certainly do the trick. For example, Click, Clack, Moo: Cows that Type is a hilarious story that appeals to very young readers, and other than the word "ultimatum" contains no complex vocabulary. But there are complex ideas embedded in the text, ideas such as leadership, social contract, power, labor unions, negotiation, and perhaps even communism. The story makes a fine companion piece to Animal Farm.

In addition, Burke and Peterson say that the illustrations must work in concert with the text, so that one or the other on its own will not suffice.

Both of these truths became self-evident last Saturday when I hit a library book sale. I headed straight for the children's books (I'd like to say because I need them for this project, but I might as well admit it was actually because I love them). I bought Bad, Bad Bunny Trouble (Wilhelm) and How Spider Saved Easter (Kraus).

Great titles, right? Seriously, at fifty cents a pop, how could I pass them up?

And I'm glad I didn't. Because, although Bad, Bad Bunny Trouble takes a slightly funny crack at trying to be an animal fable, it falls very flat in the theme department. And the illustrations in How Spider Saved Easter just don't work. The spider doesn't look like a spider, the fly has no wings, the ladybug no spots ... you get my point.

These books would not work well in a high school classroom. So I'm glad I bought them, as they serve as superb non-examples of quality picture book choices. Thank you Peterson and Burke.

Next up? I'm going to try to tackle why The Red Book is superbly amazing ... even though it doesn't have a single word.

Not what I had in mind

But, then again, maybe I'm being too narrow in my thinking ...?

Just read an article that had the look and feel of research that would be dead-on for my study. Heck, the title sure nailed it: A Multidisciplinary Approach to Literacy through Picture Books and Drama (Burke & Peterson, 2007). Uh, no. Although the research looked good, I was underwhelmed by the application.

The authors assert that our teen kiddos like picture books because they are members of a highly visual culture. Okay, I can buy that. Interesting idea I had not thought of. Well, I'd thought of the visual nature of our culture and the text/visual interplay our kids are constantly exposed to (text messages, the Internet, Twitter, etc.). But I had not made the connection that the hyper-visual world they live in explains their reception to picture books. Okay, I can buy that, too.

But where the article falls apart is in the application of the lesson. Let me explain. The disciplines of the WWII-thematic unit are:

- art
- drama
- history
- language arts

The primary vehicle for teaching the lesson (which, by the way, covers SIX WEEKS) is the reading and interpretation of two picture books: Rose Blanche (Innocenti) and One More Border: The True Story of One Family's Escape from War-Torn Europe (Kaplan).

First, students spend a couple of weeks in history lessons, plus they watch a movie. Then, they read the two picture books in weeks three and four, while also learning some basics illustration principles. In weeks five and six, students write monologues, stage tableaux, and respond to journal prompts.

My most serious concern is the low-level thinking required throughout the entire six weeks. The tableaux are nothing more then scene recreations, the journal prompts ask students to apply the art lesson to an evaluation of the illustrations in the books (sounds like application BUT the student-talk in the article reveals extremely low-level thinking), and the monologues are character summaries. We never leave level two of Bloom's -- even after six weeks of instruction.

Here's why all of this scares me: I fear that when teachers hear "picture books," they may think dumbed down lesson. And unfortunately, this article would prove them right. No matter that it ran in a highly respected journal or that the authors are professors at the University of Toronto or that it was taught to kids in 10 - 12th grade. The lesson doesn't ask kids to think. Never once are skills targeted -- much less built or assessed.

Picture books can be a spring board, diving board, back board (whatever silly board analogy works) for rigorous lessons. It doesn't matter what the content area or discipline. But if picture books are used for no reason other than our kids like visual stuff? Well, then we haven't used them to teach.

What is growth?

I read an interesting article yesterday: An Ala. High School Makes Literacy a Schoolwide Job (Gewertz, 2009). I came across it in my databases searches using only "picture books" as key terms, and although the article only makes passing references to these kinds of books, I'm glad the article popped up.

About a decade ago, administrators at Buckhorn High School started freaking out because a third of their incoming freshmen were reading at or below seventh grade level. Ack! So they decided to make literacy a function of the entire school, not just the responsibility of English teachers. They couldn't find a lot of research or application materials to help them in their implementation, so they, well, they rode by the seat of their pants.

Gewertz writes, "The staff cobbled together an approach that incorporates methods and materials used with younger children, such as art projects and wordless picture books, in high-school-level instruction." She adds, "The idea is to engaging activities and easy-to-access materials as door-openers to more complex subject matter."

The result is a school that looks a lot more like an elementary campus than a high school one, the principal admits. Isn't that interesting? The activities described in the article do have a hands-on feel ... but why is that more indicative of an elementary school than a high school one?

I was also surprised by the activities teachers and students engage in that the author describes as literacy driven. Here's a partial list:

- drawing
- creating foldables
- using computer presentation software
- using guided note taking
- watching television programs that relate to content
- observing art and discussing its cultural relevance
- participating in talk-alouds (my API calls these think-alouds)
- learning to use context clues
- reading shorter articles to understand complex content
- creating graphic organizers

Some of these, clearly, are literacy-driven. But others I would simply describe as engaging. Or better yet ... relevant.

So what's the bottom line? For me, and the author of this article, the bottom line is ... did it work? We are teaching and learning in a "measured results" world. And I think that's just fine. It's entirely appropriate to stop what we're doing once in a while and ask ourselves, "Is this working?" The maxim holds whether we're trying to lose five pounds, get a frangipani to bloom, or improve our students' reading skills.

Back to Buckhorn ... the school performs better than their district and state counterparts on standardized exams, but only by a sliver. I think the better sign that what they're doing is working is this: although still a quarter of their incoming students are reading below grade level, 98% percent of their kids pass the graduation exam by twelfth grade.

Not exactly awesome. I'm sure everyone would like to see that happen by tenth grade, and I'm equally sure their graduation exam isn't a very tough test. But bringing all of their kids up to on-grade reading level by graduation? Sounds pretty darn good to me.

Bring on the picture books.

Thea's Tree

I dug through my stack of un-read picture books this morning, looking for one that meets the criteria for high school classroom use, and I came upon this treasure: Thea's Tree, written by Alison Jackson and illustrated by Janet Pederson. Seems I'm on a tree kick lately (which is not all that surprising, as I'm getting ready to create a dirt pile in my backyard in preparation for a garden, the center of which will be a bottlebrush tree).

Anyway ... this is an engaging little story about Thea Teawinkle's science project. She plants purple, bean-like seeds in her yard and waits patiently with journal and pen in hand, ready to record what happens.  The results are rapid and shocking.  We readers know from clues scattered throughout the text that she's got Jack's beanstalk taking over her yard, but Thea never arrives at that conclusion. Instead, she embarks on a letter writing campaign, seeking advice from a museum curator, zoologist, horticulturist, acquisitions manager of an arboretum -- and eventually, a banker, conductor, and tree remover. 

One of the criterion of a picture book is that the text and illustrations are of equal importance.  This author and illustrator achieve that balance.  This book would not work without the beanstalk tendrils curling through Thea's windows ... or the expressions on the faces of Thea's "experts" perfectly matching the tone of their letter replies.

Because I teach twelfth grade English, I would use this text as a kick off for our annual research paper, asking students to note Thea's decisions and reactions during the research process.  (She ignores the suggestions of each of the experts she consults and instead makes wild, unsupported guesses as to what's happening in her yard.)  In English classes, the book would also be a superb source for teaching letter writing, adverb use, and alliteration.

But I'm more intrigued with the idea of pulling this out in a science class to discuss the process of formulating hypotheses. Or, better yet, in a European history class -- the story fantastically underpins the necessity of balancing empiricism and logic. I'm imaging Descartes jabbing his finger at Bacon, and saying, "Hah! In your face!"

See why I love picture books?

At Long Last!

I finally found a source for my independent study that is 100% dead on.  Cyndi Giorgis, a professor at the University of Nevada - Las Vegas, published a journal article called "The Power of Reading Picture Books Aloud to Secondary Students" (Clearing House, 1999).  In a clear, academic, well-supported argument, she elucidates why reading picture books to high school students across the curriculum is a fabulous idea.

Here's a sentence that appears in her introduction: "It is obvious from the thoughtful silence and audible sighs that the students have responded to the story" (51).

Yes! High five! Knuckle bump!

Here are the article's sub-headings (and you'll see why I said Giorgis' argument is clear -- her piece is the poster child for organized writing):

1. What is a Picture Book?
2. Value of Reading Picture Books Aloud
3. How to Select Picture Books
4. Strategies for Reading Aloud
5. Conclusion

Isn't she the bomb-diggity? She even sneaks in some light, but effective, criticism of ineffective strategies.  I love this: "If students reject picture books in their classroom, the question should be raised as to how the book was introduced."  Let's not blame the kids or the picture books, she says, but rather reflectively take responsibility for the learning that takes place in our classrooms.

I want to meet this woman!

Of course, there is the obligatory sidebar. The authors of articles about teaching reading cannot resist making a list of reading recommendations.  I think it's gene we reading fans share.  Who can resist the enthusiastic, "Oh, you have just got to read ..."?

In fact, I think I'll get started on a side bar for my own lit. review.  And Giorgis' article will most assuredly make a front-and-center appearance.

The Happiness Tree

I read a super sweet little picture book this morning called The Happiness Tree (Andrea Alban Gosline).  It's written in rhyming couplets, and the illustrations are precious. There are ten trees in the story, and each one embodies a lovely quality (compassion, generosity, peace, tolerance).  And each tree has a kind expression on its face and a bird in its branches.

Here's a sample page:

---
I am the tree of gratitude.

I give my thanks for rainy days,
cotton clouds crowned with rays,
refreshing air the forest clears,
quench my thirst as summer nears.

I appreciate.

---
I'm having a bit of a poopy evening, so I'm sort of wondering ... where is the tree of disappointment?

Okay, back to the nice tree book.  According to what I've been learning about using picture books in high school classrooms, this book would not work well. There are no characters, no plot, and no moral dilemmas or thorny issues. I think it might be useful as a creative writing exercise -- perhaps ask students what quality they best embody and then write two couplets to illustrate?

For example ...

I am the teacher of the second chance.

I encourage my precious kids
when at my desk their panicked bids
beseech me for another try
and at my nod, they hugely sigh.

I offer.

---

Okay, well, that was pretty lame, but hey, I wrote it in like five minutes. You get the idea.

P.S. The back of the book lists all the state trees. How cute is that?

Situated Perspective

What the heck is "situated perspective"?  Great question. I'm not sure, but I'm trying to puzzle it out.

I'm reviewing an article called "Not Just for the Primary Grades: A Bibliography of Picture Books for Secondary Content Teachers."  This was published in the Journal of Adolescent & Adult Literacy in 2001.


The writers of the article, and there are a whole passel of them, list a boatload of picture books that would work well in high school content area classrooms (for my non-teaching friends, this means core subjects -- math, English, science, social studies).  There are so many titles -- sidebar after sidebar of titles -- that I want to run, not walk but RUN, straight to the library and check out armloads of children's books. But alas, it's Memorial Day, plus it's raining, and I'm a wuss.

So, back to situated perspective.  Near as I can tell from the article, students learn better in a "situated perspective," and this occurs when:

• the ideas are grounded (still not entirely sure what the authors mean by that, but best I can tell, it has to do with bringing lofty ideas down to a place where they can be understood); I'm having a really good chuckle right now. I need the authors to provide a "situated perspective" for me so that I can understand what they mean by "situated perspective."
• the ideas are relevant
• kids can personalize the learning

All of this magic, they say, can be facilitated by using picture books.

I'm especially intrigued by that last bullet point. The authors say that kids personalize learning when they meet characters in a story. Isn't that a cool thought? That learning is connected to meeting people? 

I'm reminded of a lesson earlier this year. My AP Lit kids were reading Going After Cacciato. At the end of the unit, I invited a friend who had served in Vietnam into my classroom to talk about his experiences. He shared openly about his fear, about meeting his future bride, and about his love for both America and the people of Vietnam.  The conversation moved my students deeply. For the remainder of the year, they brought up his visit often. Through meeting my friend, they understood many of the difficult concepts in the novel in a permanent, impactful way.  Perhaps this was a situated perspective?

It would seem that it's possible to open up kids' minds and help them learn when they meet new people smack dab in the middle of the process. How simple to make those introductions with picture books.

(High school teacher friends, check out the article. It lists dozens of relevant picture books by subject area, along with helpful tips on how to use them.  Shoot me a reply and I'll get you more information.)

The "Look"

I have a children's book on my coffee table right now called The Royal Kingdom Presents ... The Letter Writing Book.  I feel like trumpets should blare every time someone reads that title.  Can I get a "Ta-dah!"?  One of the things that's super cool about it is its footprint. That sucker is at least 10" x 18"!  It's one of those books you have to move your head up and down and back and forth to read. It's gi-normous!

My son-in-law was at my house Saturday night. He picked it up and said, "I LOVE THIS!" I said, "Brian? You've read The Royal Kingdom Presents ... The Letter Writing Book?" He replied, "What? This book? Oh, no. It just reminds me of these huge coloring books my parents got me when I was a kid. I loved those."

And then Brian got a dreamy look on his face. And his body went quite still for a moment. And I could see that he went somewhere else for a minute or two.  Then I announced that dinner was ready, and he sprang back to my living room.

Oh-please-oh-please ... I want to see that look on my students' faces over and over again. Better yet, I want them to know they can go to that still, quiet place inside them whenever they want to.  Just by picking up a children's book.

Can I get a "Ta-dah!"?

Familiar with these?

Donalyn Miller, reading teacher guru, sings high praise for these books. If you've ready any of them and think they would be useful for high school intruction, please reply.

In the Middle, Nancie Atwell
Guiding Readers and Writers (Grades 3-6): Teaching Comprehension, Genre, and Content Literacy, Irene Fountas and Gay Sue Pinnell
Mosaic of Thought, Ellin Keene and Susan Zimmerman
Yellow Brick Roads: Shared and Guided Paths to Independent Reading 4-12, Janet Allen

Why not high school?

I'm reading a nice book about literacy instruction. It's called Literature is Back!  Fuhler and Walther's enthusiasm for literacy instruction is infectious.  I want to try out all of their ideas tomorrow, as well as immediately place the world's largest book order for the literally hundreds of fabulous-looking titles they recommend.

In chapter one (okay, I haven't gotten all that far), they write, "[Childeren's books] are perfect vehicles for teaching primary, elementary, and even middle school students the essential skills and strategies that successful readers and writers employ" (9).

And being the nerdy English teacher that I am, I most heartily agree.  Yes.  Most definitely.  Amen.

But why, oh why, stop at middle school?  Why do they caveat their assertion with "even middle school students?"  I have found that using children's books, particularly picture books, with my twelfth grade students of every conceivable reading ability is wildly successful.

Case in point ... here we are at the end of the school year, so I'm surveying my students, as I always do, for their favorite book they read in my class. The survey shows them how much they read (a LOT!), and I use their input to inform some of the following year's book choices and instructional methods. 

Number one choice, hands-down favorite?  Macbeth. And that winner plasters a grin on my face because I'm so proud that my students loved something difficult, something with seemingly little connection to their own worlds.

Number two choice, across the board?  The Giving Tree.

I rest my case. And I lament that there's not near enough research to show high school teachers how or why to use picture books in their classrooms.

And that's where you and I just might come in ...

Utterly Bizarre, Completely Wonderful

Tales from Outer Suburbia ... check it out.

The Intersection

Yesterday, I sent my colleagues an email to ask if anyone uses children's books in their classrooms. I got yeses from six English teachers, one math teacher, and two ESE teachers.  And my school's resource specialist asked if I'm giving away free books. Uh ... no.

So I'm curious about two things ... first, why I didn't hear back from any reading teachers (probably busy reading!) and second, how these teachers use the books. I'm going to go check out their classrooms in the fall and soak in their goodness.

Why Read Children's Stories

In The Book Whisperer, Donnalynn Miller lists ten reasons why adults should read childrens' books. Here's one reason I really like:

It's often inspirational -- reading about heroes and bravery and loyalty makes you want to be a better person. And couldn't we all do with some of that?

Amen.

She also describes the sensation of remembering "the child you once were when you first read a book." I think she's on to something here.  A sad truth of the human condition is that our innocence, somewhere along the way, was utterly and irretrievably lost.  The Biblical account of the garden, serpent, apple ... it's in our DNA.  We can, each of us, easily recall the time when the magical, iridescent trust that all is good and full of possibilities disappeared, just as it did for Adam and Eve.  Into its place came that sensation that literary analysts call loss of innocence. It shows up in literature the world over.  We cover up, we hide, we feel shame.

But reading a children's story evokes the sensation of hope and peace that we felt before that ugly realization that all is not well with the world.  There are other ways to achieve the same sweetness -- blow bubbles with a baby, bike in a downpour, inhale deeply as a cake is coming out of the oven -- but reading a children's book just might be the best, most lasting way to return to the innocents we once were.

And couldn't we all do with some of that?

Only a Witch Can Fly

I read Only a Witch Can Fly yesterday while I was blow-drying my hair.  (Doesn't everyone read while they are blow-drying their hair?)  My dear friend gave me a STACK of children's books for my birthday, and I'm ever-so-slowly working through them, savoring them one at a time like rare and precious treats. And indeed they are.

So about this witch flying business ...

I didn't like this book. The title intrigued me, while at the same time, the rational, objective (boring) side of my brain chimed in not-very-helpful thoughts, such as "Nuh-uh. Birds can fly, too.  And airplanes with competent pilots.  And, anyway, I don't believe in witches." Boy, I bet I was a delight to my teachers.

But the thick, dry paper beckoned, as did the illustrations that evoked very fond memories of Tilly Ipswitch, a much-beloved book circa 1972 (not exactly sure, as I can't find it on amazon).  The little witch in Only a Witch does wear super-cute striped stockings and her spotted kerchief is pretty much adorable.  And too, I love Alison McGhee's repetition of sky, moon, velvet, fly, bat ... as well as her wispy swirl of plot and imagery, very much like her "smoke rising up like a plume" after our little witch's unsuccessful first flight. Was I reading a poem? A song?  A story? Or the best ... a dream-like curling up of all three?

Our girl in the story, though, well ... she's out of bed and in her yard in the middle of the night.  Her little brother is up with her, and the cat, too.  Weather conditions and Halloweenish critters seem perfect for a nocturnal journey.  Eventually, kerchief girl achieves her goal.  And her parents and cat and little brother all seem pretty pleased with her feat, judging from their sweet, astonished smiles. 

That's nice. I guess.  Maybe I'm just too grown up.  I'm imagining too many kids begging for brooms and dragging their younger siblings into the yard in the middle of the night. And glaring at their cats for their inability to purr "Look at the star" or "Poor you, poor, poor" or "Soar."

I'll try this one again in October with a cup of hot tea and an imaginative five-year old. I bet it will go better.

Reading Calms Me

I hopped in my car after school today, and pushed "play" on the audio cassette. I'm listening to Bailey White's novel Quite a Year for Plums.  I love White's eye for details; her sweet, scratchy southern voice; and her delight in the absurd.

Reading ... well, it immediately calms me. I set aside the worries of today, and more importantly, the worries of tomorrow. No panic over ungraded papers. No anxiety about visitors.  No self-recriminations for not going for a run this morning.

The same thing happens in my classroom. I take out a book to read out loud, and my students calm.  Bodies slouch in desks, mouths hang open, and eyes half shut.

Why is this so?

I don't know why reading calms ... but I am grateful.

First Favorite Book

My first favorite book was Eighteen Cousins. The central character is a little boy who visits a farm -- only to find eighteen cousins following him and looking at him everywhere he goes.

I don't know why I loved the book, why I asked to have it read to me over and over, why I couldn't wait to be able to read the book all by myself.  It's true I liked to be alone, as did the little boy in the story until he finally gave in and let all eighteen cousins be his friends. And, it's true, I'd never been to a farm, but like the boy, I found peace in the sky and trees and animals and landscapes -- and thinking.  Still do.

What's also true is that this book was my first book. I can't remember any other story preceding it.  Perhaps for that reason alone, it was my favorite.

And that's reason enough.