Sporadic blogging is the worst blogging, and that's what I've been doing for the past two months. I'm sorry. If I could have taken an hour break in the middle of each day to blog, I would have. But my absence may have led to broken glass, burnt pasta, tampon pranks, stubborn bloody noses, misplaced toenail clippers, stolen money, harmless teenage canoodling, bullying the kid who's smarter than everybody, and screaming. Actually, now that I think of it, all that happened anyway despite my watchful monitoring, but it would have been much worse if I had been away blogging.
But I'm very nearly done with this job at Overland, and I finally have some free time (and will have some for an indefinite period, a period I'm very much looking forward to). I will, however, be compensated royally for my work at Overland (and by royally I mean that if I choose to eat out in the next few months, I'll be eating at Burger King). But this job wasn't about the money, which I hate hearing and even more hate writing, but is perfectly true.
But I'm very nearly done with this job at Overland, and I finally have some free time (and will have some for an indefinite period, a period I'm very much looking forward to). I will, however, be compensated royally for my work at Overland (and by royally I mean that if I choose to eat out in the next few months, I'll be eating at Burger King). But this job wasn't about the money, which I hate hearing and even more hate writing, but is perfectly true.
Before this summer, I was pretty dang interested in the contrast between an impoverished student and an affluent one. Working with students who really didn't want to be in the classroom (because they were rightly disillusioned with the whole education thing) was difficult, and I wondered if the other end of the class spectrum would yield different mindsets about education. And for many of the students I met, it did. Many loved to write, took pride in their writing, and produced some truly creative and entertaining pieces. But now that I think about it, that's entirely natural and expected. If a person is good at something, she'll want to do it more often simply because it gives her a sense of accomplishment. It's why I love flossing: I'm good at it because I practice often and my teeth feel squeaky clean afterward.
That was a terrible example, but look past it and see the truth. Of course affluent students will enjoy the classroom environment simply because they thrive in that environment. They are proficient readers and writers, but only because their families are in zones with better schools (because they have the money to afford to live in aforementioned zones). That sucks, but some of the writing produced by Overland students didn't.
I enjoyed listening and reading to many of the students' writing, but I really enjoyed writing alongside them when I could. One of my favorite exercises was the metaphor factory, for which we wrote a metaphor comparing seemingly dissimilar foods and emotions.
Here are some examples:
"Befuddleness is a hot dog. It seems simple on the outside but you have no idea what the inside is."
"Depression is a soggy Cheez-It. A little sunshine may not be enough to save it."
"Happiness is chicken pot pie. The goodness comes from within."
And finally, here is one I wrote–one I'm very proud of:
"Grit is a summer sausage. It takes a whole lot of both on the Fourth of July when you're going to a BBQ at a neighbor's house that's too close to drive but also kind of a long walk, but you choose to walk and so have to lug 20 pounds of sausage in an awkward and unpleasantly warm container."
Speaking of lots of food, another highlight was watching a group of sugar-craved teenagers devour a Vermonster–a bucket of Ben and Jerry's ice cream jam-packed with twenty scoops of different flavors, waffle cone chunks, sprinkles, chocolate syrup, bananas and other sweet nectars. It was like watching a posse of viciously hungry penguins come upon the first pile of fishy goodness in a long time.
Some of the sights were worth mentioning, too. We took one group of kiddos to the top of Mt. Greylock at sunset. We watched from our perch above the city as the sun fell behind us, dazzling the clouds before us with hues of I don't remember what color, but they were spectacular. But even better was watching the shadow of the mountain that we were sitting on make its measured march along the valley floor beneath us, eventually engulfing the city in an arrow-like shadow as the sun dipped below the peak at our backs. It was serene, so serene it even caught the attention of teenagers inhaling pizza and oxygen from the same area. (Teenagers that inhale oxygen alone are far more likely to notice their surroundings.)
I greatly enjoyed the company of all my students at one time or another, but one in particular was notably stellar. He made me laugh and think throughout the entire two weeks I spent with him. On our longest hike, my abs stung from peals of laughter listening to this boy and another ring off guesses to a riddle that went like this, "What is green, fuzzy, and will kill you if it falls out of tree." His guesses started out practical, but soon moved into abstract and ridiculously funny. He would say things like, "What is a twin-headed dragon? the strong nuclear force? the space-time continuum? a pocketful of gently-used marbles? stick of deodorant?" I don't know what it was, but I could hardly contain my laughter. He also often referred to books he'd read in his guesses, many of which were sci-fi, and it was he and the other boy who inspired me to buy The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, which I've cherished the chance to read.
I wrote a glowing letter about him (and the other boy, for that matter) to his parents. This is something we have to do for all students, but sometimes we leave the glowing part out. With him, though, I spent a hefty chunk of time trying to capture how grateful I was to meet him in the letter. Here is some of it:
That was a terrible example, but look past it and see the truth. Of course affluent students will enjoy the classroom environment simply because they thrive in that environment. They are proficient readers and writers, but only because their families are in zones with better schools (because they have the money to afford to live in aforementioned zones). That sucks, but some of the writing produced by Overland students didn't.
I enjoyed listening and reading to many of the students' writing, but I really enjoyed writing alongside them when I could. One of my favorite exercises was the metaphor factory, for which we wrote a metaphor comparing seemingly dissimilar foods and emotions.
Here are some examples:
"Befuddleness is a hot dog. It seems simple on the outside but you have no idea what the inside is."
"Depression is a soggy Cheez-It. A little sunshine may not be enough to save it."
"Happiness is chicken pot pie. The goodness comes from within."
And finally, here is one I wrote–one I'm very proud of:
"Grit is a summer sausage. It takes a whole lot of both on the Fourth of July when you're going to a BBQ at a neighbor's house that's too close to drive but also kind of a long walk, but you choose to walk and so have to lug 20 pounds of sausage in an awkward and unpleasantly warm container."
Speaking of lots of food, another highlight was watching a group of sugar-craved teenagers devour a Vermonster–a bucket of Ben and Jerry's ice cream jam-packed with twenty scoops of different flavors, waffle cone chunks, sprinkles, chocolate syrup, bananas and other sweet nectars. It was like watching a posse of viciously hungry penguins come upon the first pile of fishy goodness in a long time.
Some of the sights were worth mentioning, too. We took one group of kiddos to the top of Mt. Greylock at sunset. We watched from our perch above the city as the sun fell behind us, dazzling the clouds before us with hues of I don't remember what color, but they were spectacular. But even better was watching the shadow of the mountain that we were sitting on make its measured march along the valley floor beneath us, eventually engulfing the city in an arrow-like shadow as the sun dipped below the peak at our backs. It was serene, so serene it even caught the attention of teenagers inhaling pizza and oxygen from the same area. (Teenagers that inhale oxygen alone are far more likely to notice their surroundings.)
I greatly enjoyed the company of all my students at one time or another, but one in particular was notably stellar. He made me laugh and think throughout the entire two weeks I spent with him. On our longest hike, my abs stung from peals of laughter listening to this boy and another ring off guesses to a riddle that went like this, "What is green, fuzzy, and will kill you if it falls out of tree." His guesses started out practical, but soon moved into abstract and ridiculously funny. He would say things like, "What is a twin-headed dragon? the strong nuclear force? the space-time continuum? a pocketful of gently-used marbles? stick of deodorant?" I don't know what it was, but I could hardly contain my laughter. He also often referred to books he'd read in his guesses, many of which were sci-fi, and it was he and the other boy who inspired me to buy The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, which I've cherished the chance to read.
I wrote a glowing letter about him (and the other boy, for that matter) to his parents. This is something we have to do for all students, but sometimes we leave the glowing part out. With him, though, I spent a hefty chunk of time trying to capture how grateful I was to meet him in the letter. Here is some of it:
In the classroom, [he] crafted inspiring, at times humorous, and even masterly pieces. After finishing his final essay early, he quickly wrote up a series of similes and metaphors that, when later read to the group, brought tears of laughter to many eyes. One memorable line of his read, “Defeat is the Aurora Borealis / I’ve never seen it.” He won’t be remembered solely for his humor, though. His essay on what he believes in was a testament to the power of hard work. He wrote about his desire to always seek challenges, for in those challenges does an individual truly aspire to something greater. He may not have realized it, but his essay, in which he described his demanding schedule of athletic and academic pursuits, revealed how he has become such an impressive and driven young man, one who is distinctively intelligent, unassumingly funny, kindhearted, and an utter joy to be around.
So many moments throughout the summer moved me, but this blog wouldn't be complete without mentioning my co-leader, Kelly. I led with her for two of the three trips, and we bonded over some shared views, and of course our knucklehead students. Most of my conversations that went deeper than superficiality were shared with her. I like to think I taught her something, and she certainly showed me the importance of prime and uncompromising expectations for these kids.
When the time came to evaluate my co-leaders, I had this to write about Kelly: "She strives for perfection. I think her past experiences as a student at Overland helped her greatly in knowing what a perfect group looks and acts like. This meant that she had very high standards for student behavior, and she pushed the students and myself to strive for that ideal. I think Kelly was a stellar leader, exuding a drive and positive mindset that belied her mere nineteen years."
I had to look up 'belied' when I wrote that, and I'm still not sure if I used it exactly right, but I felt like I had to use it in her review.
Finally, in the name of unabashed self-promotion (since I'll be on the job market in about 24 hours), here is what Kelly wrote about me: "Strengths: Connected with each and every student–able to learn so much about them and took the time to make each student feel special. He is one of the most thoughtful people I have ever met and just being around him has made me a more thoughtful/aware leader and person."
Thanks Kelly. Thanks Overland. Thanks relativity, for making this one of the longest/shortest summers of my life.
Next up: Kansas City, Missouri. I wonder if people like basketball there.
When the time came to evaluate my co-leaders, I had this to write about Kelly: "She strives for perfection. I think her past experiences as a student at Overland helped her greatly in knowing what a perfect group looks and acts like. This meant that she had very high standards for student behavior, and she pushed the students and myself to strive for that ideal. I think Kelly was a stellar leader, exuding a drive and positive mindset that belied her mere nineteen years."
I had to look up 'belied' when I wrote that, and I'm still not sure if I used it exactly right, but I felt like I had to use it in her review.
Finally, in the name of unabashed self-promotion (since I'll be on the job market in about 24 hours), here is what Kelly wrote about me: "Strengths: Connected with each and every student–able to learn so much about them and took the time to make each student feel special. He is one of the most thoughtful people I have ever met and just being around him has made me a more thoughtful/aware leader and person."
Thanks Kelly. Thanks Overland. Thanks relativity, for making this one of the longest/shortest summers of my life.
Next up: Kansas City, Missouri. I wonder if people like basketball there.