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.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, June 28, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
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?
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?
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
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?
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?
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?
Saturday, June 19, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, June 18, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
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.
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.
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.
Monday, June 14, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
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?
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?
Saturday, June 5, 2010
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):
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.
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):
- What is a Picture Book?
- Value of Reading Picture Books Aloud
- How to Select Picture Books
- Strategies for Reading Aloud
- Conclusion
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.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
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?
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?
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