Sometimes I wonder if I can’t sleep because my mind won’t turn off. Or if my mind won’t turn off because I can’t sleep.

Doesn’t matter, actually. I find nuggets of wonderfulness when I awake in the middle of the night and check my RSS feed. This morning, it’s a poem from Jim Burke that I want to share with my own students:

The Journey

One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

though the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice —

though the whole house

began to tremble

and you felt the old tug

at your ankles.

“Mend my life!”

each voice cried.

But you didn’t stop.

You knew what you had to do,

though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers

at the very foundations,

though their melancholy

was terrible.

It was already late

enough, and a wild night,

and the road full of fallen

branches and stones.

But little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice

which you slowly

recognized as your own,

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do —

determined to save

the only life you could save.

––By Mary Oliver

Ted Sizer came to mind as I watched our eighth-graders present their mock Congressional hearings yesterday and today on the Constitution, political philosophers, how our government works, and much more:

When the students forget the explicit contents of today’s lesson – and we know that they will – what is left? Anything? What happens after they forget the difference between atomic number and atomic mass? What is left after they forget the difference between the Declaration of the Rights of Man and the Universal Declaration of Human Rights? After they forget the rhyme and scheme and meter of a Shakespearean Sonnet or between sin, cos and tan? ~Ted Sizer

But what happens when they “own” that learning?  They will not quickly forget when they research and present like they did today. I was so impressed with how prepared they were to answer our questions as we pushed them to think deeper, defend fully, and articulate clearly.

What “is left” after work like this is the meaningful learning. These experiences will stay with them as they navigate their own civic responsibilities  with an understanding of what and who came before them. A thoughtful history teacher provided opportunities for real life learning that will carry them into the future.

Such a cool day.

The papers are finished. I’ve just marked the last few character essays on A Tale of Two Cities. Though many students nailed the assignment, others struggled to find the organizational structure needed to make the essays work. Others organized well, but then failed to move beyond the obvious.
I didn’t want to grade them. Oh, I know what you’re thinking. But it’s not that I didn’t want to read them.
No, what I always agonize over is putting a letter or number grade on the papers, even when I have relied on a rubric to guide my thoughts. Writing, learning to write, is hard work. It takes time. And I’m not sure my evaluations are all that accurate, anyway. I can’t tell you how many times I have graded an essay only to take a second look the next day and questioned why I had marked it that way.

So. I am trying something new next semester. I am going to have students write and conference with me as they work. Then, when they are finished, I will meet with them again, sharing the strengths and weaknesses of the essay. If they want to re-do, they may. In fact, they may re-write until they get the grade they want, as many times as they want.
I wonder how many students will take me up on this. I wonder if having on-going conversations about their writing will serve as a better approach than simply writing comments in the margins that I am not even sure they read or understand. I wonder if I’ll be overwhelmed with writing conferences during those rare free moments of the day.

It’s worth a try.

image credit: www.flickr.com/photos/nirak