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.
No comments:
Post a Comment