Friday, March 23, 2012
Writing History
Who are you as a writer? What are the memories you have as a writer? If these are hard to remember try making a timeline for yourself and writing down all of the different memories you have from the earliest to the most recent. Take some time to write down your history and what you think defines you as a writer.
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My timeline as a writer:
ReplyDeleteAge 6: I get marked down in kindergarten because I don’t know how to write my last name.
Age 8: My first praiseworthy poem. Written for Mrs. Corbett’s second grade class. Called “The Birds”:
I look up in the sky
To see the birds fly
The air was so bad
At first they got mad
Then they just cried
At last they died.
This remains the high water mark of my life as a writer.
Age 8: I wrote an illustrated story about a war against ants. It featured the two obsessions of my elementary school years: war and ants.
Grades 3 through 11: I don’t remember writing anything noteworthy with the following exception:
Grade 10: I visited my communist/Quaker aunt and uncle in Guatemala and kept a journal of my travels. I wrote a lot. The journal remains stashed away in a box somewhere. I’m too self-conscious to dig it out and read it much less share it with anyone.
Grade 12: I took a creative writing elective. It amounted to writing one poem a day. We shared one poem a week with the class. We did not read any poetry or study elements of poetry or techniques for writing poetry. I wrote silly rhyming poems to amuse myself and my friends. I had a blast.
College years: I have many, many writing assignments. I write slowly, taking pains to write well. Writing is not fun.
Freshmen year: I took a my first legitimate creative writing class. I wrote my first short story. It was called “How Benny’s Mom Died”. I read it to the class. The professor said, “It works.” I believe that to be high praise.
Sophomore year: Poetry writing class. Without knowing any better I wrote a long, silly, rhyming poem. The professor read it to the class then went off on a brutal harangue about it being the worst thing ever put on any type of paper including toilet paper. It was one of the lowest moments of my life. To this day I hate that bastard. For the next six years I hate poetry.
Junior year: I transferred to UNH and took another creative writing class. Instead of writing something new I slightly revise “How Benny’s Mom Died” and hand it in. The professor says, “It works.”
Age 25: I see a Monty Python sketch about ants reading classic English poetry. “I am Ozymandius, King of Ants!” and “I wandered lonely as an ant.” I check out the original poems. I like poetry again.
Age 25: I do a poetry writing unit with my middle school students. I write with them. For the next fifteen years I write a little poetry as part of teaching my middle school poetry unit.
Age 30: I write my first email. It takes me two hours to write one paragraph. I accidentally hit send before it's finished.
Age 42 to present: I use journal writing time at the Alt Program to write in my own journal. I write about all the crazy things that happen at the Alt. Program. There is never a shortage of things to write about. I’ve almost filled my third, 200 page journal. I really enjoy journal writing.
Last week: My daughter calls me from college. She's excited because she wrote her first short story and the professor praised it. I ask if he said "It works". She said no.
present: I am back taking classes and having to write for them. Writing continues to be a slow and painstaking labor. I am very conscious that people expect English teachers to write perfectly.
Steve,
DeleteI love this timeline! I get such a sense of you as a writer and a student! Have you ever considered doing this with your students? It is fascinating to see what their attitudes and beliefs are about literacy. You can combine with with reading as well. Often the student can pinpoint the exact point in time that they stopped trying.
Thanks!
Tomasen
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ReplyDeleteIn kindergarten and early elementary school, I was the student who colored neatly inside the lines and traced the letters exactly. Everything had to be perfect. I'm pretty sure I remember looking on with some sort of childish disdain at the kids who couldn't manage to do that. (How snooty!) And I will say, that for a lot of my early writing, imitation of others who had perfected the craft seemed to dominate my writing history.
ReplyDeleteFor me, reading and writing were always intertwined, and I remember much more of my history as a reader than I do of my early writing accomplishments. My parents brought us on weekly trips to the library, particularly throughout the summers, where there was always a reading contest to see how many books you could read. I always got the gold starts for the most books read each summer. When my brother and I were older, we would bike into town, pack our backpacks full of books, stock up on Combos and candy at the store, and pedal home again, where we would find a tree branch high enough to catch the breezes and eat and read.
In sixth grade, we wrote stories, but the one that sticks with me the most is the one that Stephanie wrote and passed around for the edification of the rest of the class. It was all about sex and I didn't understand, well, pretty much any of it. That was probably the first time I ever read anything I that confused me.
In seventh and eighth grade, we did a lot of journal writing/free writing. School-issued manila folders continued segments of a continuing saga...a mix of Indiana Jones and Terry Brooks--The Elfstones of Shannara, where my main character was an Elven girl named Amber (my favorite name at the time). I called it "The Gemstones of Arbolon" (note the completely non-plagiarized similiarity of the syntax of the book's title and ignore the fact that Arbolon was the capital Elven city in the Shannara book), and my brother and I would re-enact segments of it in our backyard, using sticks as swords and following an "ancient" map I created of my mythical world.
In ninth, eleventh, and twelfth grade, Mr. Henry became my English teacher, and he was the first teacher I ever had who wrote with us. Freshman and junior year, we wrote a lot of poetry, and we would hold class-wide writing workshops on our poems. People could volunteer (or be selected) to read their poems and the class would offer critiques. Mr. Henry would bring his own poetry--which focused on being a teacher, a father, a radio DJ--to share with us, listening to our feedback. He would always call on me to read my poems, knowing that I liked to write, pulling me out of my place in school as the resident wallflower. I read my work--I think my first poem for the class did something with color symbolism--with a little twist at the end, and the applause that followed, and the comments of my classmates murmuring their genuine approval made me feel as if I had scored the winning shot in the state championship. Heck, it made me feel as if I had managed just to get out on the court.
In my junior year, Mr. Henry created a literary magazine called Serendipity, and as part of its inaugural run, the magazine instituted a poetry contest. My poem about reading poetry won, and my prize was a $25 gift certificate to the Dartmouth Bookstore, my own personal bookstore mecca. (For years, I wanted to attend Dartmouth just so I could go to that bookstore on a daily basis. It took a while before I learned about being Ivy League material). During my senior year, I took Journalism with Mr. Henry, writing a good chunk of the text of our class's senior yearbook: poetry, the year-in-review, championship game coverage, captions... You name it; I did it. And I enjoyed it--so much that I initially decided that English/Journalism was going to be my major at UNH. At our senior year Baccalaureate/Awards Ceremony, Mr. Henry presented me with the English Award. That award and what it represented--writing well--and receiving acknowledgement for that--gave me confidence in my high school world, and I will always be grateful for Mr. Henry for such a gift.
ReplyDeleteCollege writing ran the gamut: literary analysis essays (which I actually enjoyed), fiction, persuasive pieces, lesson plans... I took a course called "Fiction Writing" twice, which was essentially a writing workshop class--so fun!--and years later when Sue Wheeler and Rebecca Rule wrote Creating the Story, they used an example from one of my pieces. It was basically: here's a really cheesy ending involving a sarcastic fairy godmother that this writer invented for her story--but here's a better one that she came up with later. So it was my first unofficially published, anonymous, summarized, publicly critiqued story. I even got away with having my honors senior thesis consist of 30-50 pages of short story writing. Honestly, I don't think it was my best work; it was pretty pretentious and John Yount, my advisor, was able to offer advice without being too brutal.
My favorite pieces, written in grad school, came after my first two years of teaching. I signed up for the UNH Writers Program, a three week class with Maureen Barbieri. We did read, quick writes each day, work shopped our pieces, wrote unit plans incorporating writing, and laughed and cried. I loved it. I wrote three poems: a love poem called "Restoration"; a poem that told the story of my discovery that Santa Claus wasn't real (mixed up with the story of the loss of my childhood friend); and a poem about my parents' relationship, in which my mother's garden gargoyle from my father was the central metaphor. It was the first time I had really worked on poetry since high school, and I was surprised to discover how much I had missed it--and how much I enjoyed writing it. "Restoration" was selected by the group as one of ten pieces to be shared publicly with the entire campus on the final day.
After that summer, I employed the use of quick writes in my classes, but didn't do much of my own writing. That held true for most of the next decade. I would occasionally write to model something for students, most notably in Journalism class, and create silly puns for vocabulary sentences, but that was about it. I had to do some essay writing for the AP Language workshop that I took in St. Johnsbury, so that I would be better able to understand what my students would be facing when it came time to take the AP exam.
And then, this past fall, our teachers' contract came up for review. Our school was under fire for being listed as fifth from the bottom. And I was tired of hearing about how awful the teachers were. I was tired of us being beaten up in the press and vilified at school board meetings--despite the evidence that we were really trying to turn things around. And so, prior to the special town deliberative session, I wrote a speech. I spent at least two days crafting what I wanted to say: researching, gathering statistics, considering my audience, running the piece by Tim to get his take on it, summoning arguments, and mustering counterattacks for the rebuttals I knew would be waiting.
ReplyDeleteThat night, I was the second person at the podium to speak. It took a great deal of willpower to force my voice not to tremble, and to speak at a normal pace, but I did. I didn't know if the town moderator would let me read the whole speech--it was pretty lengthy--but he did. When I finished, the sound of the applause reverberating through the cafeteria told me we had won the day.
*** Sorry so long and in three posts! I couldn't fit it into one.
There it sat on my desk mocking me. Stark white paper swathed in blue lines like a prison cell. "Why are you even pretending you are going to write? Stop playing. Don't even try. The best you can hope for is failure. It is not going to happen."
ReplyDeleteEach assignment I tried to complete, ended in nothingness. When I would get something, it was dribble scrawled across the page like ancient hieroglyphics, only there was no cypher. No key to unravel the web of mixed metaphors and banal word choice of that mess. Perhaps the bars were appropriate.
I could not even begin. There was no hope, or so I thought.
Then, I got my first computer. The solution to all my problems in a cute box with a colorful apple on the side. The words it could "process" per minute were in the triple digits at least. Finally, success was within my grasp.
My high hopes were dashed promptly when I began my first assignment.
I turned on the computer and all I saw was a black screen with the green cursor blinking in the same insolent tone as the paper before, but this time, it had the cold satisfaction of a computer.
"Hello , what would you like to do today Jacob?"
"Write an essay on why skateboarding should be allowed on the streets of Bristol."
"And why would you want to do that, Jacob?"
"Because, that is the assignment."
"Jacob?"
"Yes computer?"
"Would you like to play a game?"
"Yes, that would be… No, I have to finish this essay."
"But Jacob, You are only going to fail…."
This was the way writing went for me throughout the beginning of my high school career. I was incapable of finishing a single 3 page essay.
Then, I took a theatre class. I took it because they were going to make me write a play and of course, if I had to do it, they had to teach it right?
In the class, I learned the writing process. I learned the value of revisions and editing.
And, I wrote a five act play.
I was hooked. Suddenly, I began to question the choices of authors I read.
With my revisions, I learned about style. I began to develop my own.
I began writing poetry and powerful music.
During my college career, I learned how to read better and that opened doors which slammed shut in 9th grade.
It was not until working as a teacher that I began writing fiction. I taught creative writing and shared my music and poetry with the students. The combination of my strong voice and my ability to help them find their own voices led them to search me out as the mentor of the school writer's group. I could not teach or lead the group if I did not write. So, I wrote.
I still write. I have performed my original works in coffee houses and bars all over the east coast and in England and Scotland. I have been published online, but not in print as of yet.
Now whenever I sit down to write, the words form on my terms.
Hi all,
ReplyDeleteThis is what I had written to hand in last class. It seems woefully inadequate compared to the rest...my apologies.
My personal history as a writer is a somewhat sporadic one. My earliest memories are of learning no more than how to form letters. Given my lack of fine motor coordination (those who know me will attest that my gross motor skills aren’t much, if any, better) just making those letters legibly was a struggle. As a product of a Catholic school run by the Sisters of Mercy (Oh! The irony!), I dreaded the physical act itself. Good penmanship was prized; mine was ridiculed. It may be at least in part why I tended toward talking to express myself, and for years shied away from writing.
Public high school opened me up a bit more, but even the more creative writing projects seemed constrained by form and ultimately felt voiceless. In college I discovered the real writer in me. Papers were my strength, and words seemed to flow quite naturally. More than one professor noted that even when the content itself was crap, it was at least well written crap. After college, I just kind of fell into the world of retail, and never made time for any real writing. I got rusty. Becoming a full time teacher somewhat later in life, I was a rookie at thirty-seven, proved the single most important step in developing my writing skills. In the realm of language arts, regardless of individual content, we are always teachers of writing. As such, I cannot imagine trying to teach something I didn’t do myself as a matter of habit. My English 9 classes always had a daily journal component, and I made sure my students saw me writing too. True to our form, sometimes I shared my writing with the class, and sometimes I did not. We all need space, even on the page.
This year I started teaching a course in creative writing, and this has been a great experience. I write poetry and fiction again the latter for the first time in years), and I’m finding more joy daily, sharing my ideas with a group of budding writers, and getting input from them as well. Who knows, maybe someday I’ll even have the guts to share beyond the classroom walls.
When I moved out of my parent’s house during their divorce during my second year of college, I found, buried in my childhood bedroom, my first story. It was written on large green and white printer paper from the 1970s, and my handwriting was so large took up two lines of green and a line of white. It was a story about a rock, and apparently I was pretty proud of it to have saved it in the recesses of the closet. I vaguely remember following my father to work at the State Department’s computer center when he was called in at night and when my mother was taking her college course. I vaguely remember sitting on the ramp in the rather large computer room, surrounded by the hum of the machines, writing and drawing in large letters on the recycling computer paper that he handed me.
ReplyDeleteI don’t remember writing much at all throughout my childhood. Reading was my passion. I must have written something, but to this day, I have no idea what.
My sophomore year of high school introduced me to my Honors English teacher, Mrs. Sheila Porath. She was, apparently, a woman ahead of her time. While drilling us daily on grammar, diagraming sentences, and vocabulary, she also gave us the opportunity to write. We turned every journal into her, and it was returned within a day or so with a highlighted sentence, her favorite on the whole page. As a teacher, I understand her strategy; she couldn’t have written comments on every single writing piece that was turned in to her, but highlighting a sentence communicated to us that she had read it and had found value in at least one thing. It became a thrill to try to guess which sentence she would underline and an even bigger thrill to get my papers back and to try and surmise why she highlighted the sentence that she did. In a daring attempt for a student who rarely stretched her creativity, I decided, once, not to answer the prompt she had given us but rather I wrote an entire page that listed the things in my life that bored me. I am not sure why this journal was so important to me, but I do know that Mrs. Porath actually wrote a response to me upon its return. She said that she was proud of my risk taking and hoped that I would continue to do so. She was the first teacher who made me feel as if I had something to offer. She would later become my inspiration to teach English.
In my junior year of college, I met another inspirational teacher, whose name at the moment eludes me. She taught a children’s literature course, but a large portion of the course was not just studying literature but was rather writing our own literature so as to understand how and writers do what they do. Every class we were asked to share our writing, and every class I was one of the first to volunteer. None of my writing was overly outstanding, but, again, I was filled with a confidence due mostly in part to the encouragement of the teacher. I submitted my first poem for publication during this class, and upon receiving a copy of the verification, this professor took me and the rest of the class out for a celebratory drink. I felt pretty special that day.
ReplyDeleteIn my adult life, I find my writing hidden throughout the house, in journals, on random slips of paper, hidden in drawers. I attempt to write in spurts. I am overcome with enthusiasm, write religiously for a few days, then life overcomes and writing takes a back seat. I recently found a short story that I wrote when I was first dating my husband. It was about his dog, Guinness, and a hike that the three of us had gone on. This dog later became mine, and the three of us made up our little family for many, many years. I recently discovered the journal that I started after my son was born. It is made up of several letters that I wrote to him, telling him my story as it is intertwined with him. I had hoped to write many more letters, but there are more empty pages than there are pages filled with text.
Now, I am teaching writing to my students, and I am far from an authority on the subject. I took the risk, once again, to write for an audience, to focus on process in front of very critical 16 year olds. It is helpful to have an “assignment” of sorts, for it forces me to take the time to write. It is helpful to have input from critical readers. It is helpful to feel confident. It is difficult to do this by and for myself.
Sara - I LOVE the idea of highlighting on sentence that your teacher loved the most. I think that's a very creative way to show kids that you care and are reading what they write - plus I love that you would try to guess what sentence she would like!
ReplyDeleteMy writing is kind of strange. It starts with my obsession with blank notebooks. I love them - adore them - and have so many that it's kind of embarrassing. Looking back, I wonder now if I expected to be inspired BY the blank notebook. I just always think of all the wonderful things that a notebook might contain...things that I may be able to create. Even in elementary school, I carried one with me at all times - I loved "Harriet, The Spy," although my notebooks were all creative rather than observational. I felt like my head was full of so many good ideas - poems, stories, screenplays...I wanted to write them all. Later I would relate to Keats' "...before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain..."
My real inspiration came from two women: Louisa May Alcott and Laura Ingalls Wilder - both wrote stories about families and family life that I could understand. I must have read the LIW series about a hundred times, curled up in the hayloft of our barn during rainstorms. The thing that stuck with me was LMA's idea that a writer should write what they know. What did I know? Not much when I was that young, but it still struck a chord. Every time I write anything I think of that. It's true - the stories I've written about variations on things that happened are much, much better than anything else I try to concoct.
Like Sara, I still happen across my writing around the house, stuck in an old book, in a random drawer or cupboard, sometimes even in cookbooks. Darker parts of life were elegantly scripted in poetry, but the rest varies from whimsical to observational humor. I want to write more, but the time and space for it constantly eludes me.
3/23/2012
ReplyDeleteI started this timeline back in March and added to it each time I remembered something more about writing.
Timeline:
Second grade class had a contest with the other second grade class on weekly spelling tests. I always got 100’s on my tests and that year I moved and the teacher told the class they needed another good speller to take my place. She said she was going to miss me.
Fifth Grade/Teacher recommended I write to her niece in Germany as a Pen Pal
Eighth Grade/I wrote a research paper on what I wanted to be when I grew up (Nurse)
Ninth Grade/I do not remember too many specifics, but I remember I liked my teacher and loved writing what she wanted us to write.
Senior Year/High School/ Mr. Wilson’s class he would always compliment me on my writing and encouraged me to continue to write.
Freshman Year/Community College/English Composition-This was probably my most happiest year of my writing during school. I remember sitting in class the week following a paper that had to be turned in. I took a risk with this and could possibly end up with failing the class. I really did not like the assignment given and really felt like re-writing the ending was what I wanted to do. I remember it was a Steinbeck novel, but not sure which one. I took the chance and did it. The next class the professor announced that he would like to read one of the essays he received from one of the students in class. He stated that even though the student did not do the assignment they were supposed to do, he thought it was creative and worth sharing. He read it aloud in class and I was so impressed that he was impressed and even acknowledged this that I never forgot it. I also did get an A on the paper.
Grad School Writing/Sara Brody
Grad School/Testing and Assessment Writing
Grad School/Thesis paper
Writing to a cousin in PA for over a year via US mail
Eulogy/September 2011
Reading/Writing course
Definitely do not write for pleasure up until now with the kids in class.
As an adult much of the writing is for a specific purpose
School, recommendations, observations, e-mails for vacation rental business,
Didn’t like writing in a diary, was never consistent
I didn't finish before I hit published. I guess my professor in grad school was the person who really got into correcting my work and helping me to say what I mean and get my words across to people in a more straight and to the point way. I wish I would have remembered to continue in this way. She was a wonderful reading/writing teacher and unfortunately I heard she passed away a few years ago. So said a person who was really a great teacher and one who truly loved to teach.
ReplyDeleteThen in grad school, the infamous thesis paper, twenty five pages long. I cannot believe I got through it, but I did. Wow!
About five years ago my mother's sister passed away and we went to PA for her funeral. I got reacquainted with cousins and relatives I have not seen in many years. One of them was a cousin of my mother's and a second cousin of mine.We exchanged addresses and I was quite surprised when I received a letter from her in the US mail. She did not have a computer and this was the way she communicated. This continued for about two years, exchanging letters, but then I stopped. It was probably lack of time, but I think about returning a letter every now and again. It is my turn.
I would first off let her know that my sister, her cousin, passed away last September. Her death, a suicide. A second sister who could not handle life here on earth.
Finally, I really did get back to writing when my colleague and I introduced Penny's book to our class and began a procedure of starting each time we met with 10 minutes of choice reading and varied quickwrites topics. We shared our writing pieces when asked and felt there are several students in our class who really have a flare for creative writing when given a choice and or a direction.
I think I am finished for now.
My timeline as a writer:
ReplyDeleteAge 1 and 1/2: begin recognizing print, letters, sounds, and words.
Age 3: I learn to print my name - first, middle, and last on a tiny slate board with chalk and an eraser. In fact, I remember asking my mom what my middle name was and practicing my whole name over and over again.
Age 10: I made and wrote a small book about mice and then another book, a mystery - both are still on a book shelf at home. My daughter came across them a few years ago. From the corner of my eye, I caught her curled up on the couch reading them. She was smiling and laughing. When finished, she said, "Who wrote these mommy?" "I did!" "Wow! can I make one?" she asked.
6th Grade: Won a class writing contest for a short story.... don't remember it much, but I do remember it being Christmas related and using family names. I also remember being horribly upset when I learned I would have to read it aloud to all the 6th grade parents in a presentation and school celebration a few weeks later. I survived!
9th Grade: Had an English teacher who taught the BORING 5 paragraph essay format we all HAD to follow!
10th Grade: I had an amazing English teacher who took us step by step through the process of a formal research paper. Without her, I never could have made it through college!
12 Grade: Had a fun English teacher who made reading "boring stuff" and writing bearable. After graduation, he told me I was the only student to ever receive a 100% on his final exam.
College years: I had many, many writing assignments. Most were research related. Many were NOT fun. One professor was so horrible that I dropped the "required" English class I was to take and signed up for it again in the following semester. I lucked out! I got the Dean of the English department for the college and he opened my eyes back up to the "fun" of writing!
Although this does not mean that I continue to write after the class is over.
1999: I am working in NY - on the border of Nassau and Suffolk County in an elementary school teaching kindergarten - my 3rd year of teaching. I feel completely unprepared for the non-English speaking children seated before me. I went to school to be a teacher, I am thinking.... but they didn't really TEACH me HOW to teach skill, by skill by skill. Where do I begin????? I decide to go back to school.
2001: I move from NY to NH and transfer to a different college to finish my dual masters in reading and learning disabilities.
2005: I graduate having written all research papers.... interesting to me, but perhaps, not to others! I am certified as a Reading Specialist, Learning Disability Specialist, and General Special Educator - in addition to Elementary Education.
2011: I get re-certified and begin to freak out!
My certificate NOW says Reading and WRITING Specialist in addition to my other certifications. When did the state do this???? When did they train me to be a SPECIALIST in writing?????? I have never thought of myself as a writer... or even very good at writing. Now, suddenly, I am being called a "specialist."
present: I am taking any and every class, workshop, etc. I can to educate and improve myself in the area of writing. Hopefully, someday, I will feel worthy of that title. :)
My timeline as a writer:
ReplyDeleteAge 1 ½: I begin to recognize print, sounds, and letters on a page.
Age 3: I can write my whole name (first, middle, and last). In fact, I remember asking my mom what my middle name was and practicing it over and over again with chalk and an eraser on a small, lined chalk board.
Age 8: I make two story books, complete with illustrations – one is a mystery about a missing egg and the other is about mice. Both are still sitting on a shelf in my home. In fact, my daughter came across them many years ago, read them, asked me who wrote them, and then wanted to make some herself!
6th Grade: I won a class writing completion. I don’t remember the story specifically, but I remember it having family names in it and it taking place around Christmas. I also remember being horrified when I found out I had to read it in front of an audience of adults – all the parents of the 6th grade classes. I survived!
9th Grade: I had an English teacher who felt it her mission to shove the 5 paragraph format down our throats until we wanted to choke. I hated writing at this point!
10th Grade: I had a brilliant English teacher who was an actress each an everyday at the front of the classroom. In addition all of our other reading and writing assignments throughout the year, she took the time to take us step by step (over the course of 3 quarters) through the process of writing a formal research paper. We completed and handed in one step at a time, with feedback, re-did that step, etc. until we got to the end of the piece. Without her patience and systematic teaching, I never would have made it through college!
12th Grade: English became a bit boring again, but I knew what I needed to do to complete the assignments. In fact, my English teacher found me shortly before the graduation ceremony and told me I was the only student he ever had in his 27 years of teaching to get 100% on his final exam.
College years: I had many, many writing assignment – most of them were research papers, most were NOT fun to write. I remember writing because I HAD to.
1999: I am in a kindergarten classroom on the border of Nassau and Suffolk County, NY wondering why my undergraduate degree did not prepare me for what I am encountering. Why didn’t they teach ME HOW to teach skill by skill by skill??? I remember thinking to myself. Why didn’t they prepare me for kids who can’t read AT ALL? Where do I begin? What do I do? Many don’t even speak English.
This is when I decide to go back to school. I begin taking courses at Dowling College in Reading and Special Education.
2001: Bombing of NYC. I can’t ever get off this island!! We are always stuck in traffic – 8 ½ hours to make an hour trip to New Jersey… horrible. No mommy and me groups for stay at home moms. Everyone works. No one stays home with their children. Very materialistic. We decide to move. We pack up everything, sell the house in one day, and move to NH without jobs.
2003 - 2005: I transfer to Rivier College and finish a Masters in Reading and Learning Disabilities. I end up certified as a Reading Specialist, General Special Educator, and Learning Disability Specialist in addition to my Elementary Education certification. Throughout this training I wrote mostly research papers- interesting to me, but perhaps not to others!
2011: I get re-certified and am completely horrified to find different wording on my certificate. Supposedly I am now considered a Reading AND WRITING specialist according to the state of NH. Since when was writing including in my training???? What?? I am thinking? I am NOT a writer! I don’t even LIKE writing!
2011-present: I am taking each and every writing workshop, course, etc. I can get (paid for by the district) to help me improve my writing. If I am to be this “specialist” in the state’s eyes, it would have been nice for them to have trained me as such, and not just added that onto my title! Now I feel like I have sooooo much more to live up to and learn in order to be worthy of my full title! Not fair State of NH!
OOOOps! It put mine in twice! (They are slightly different) Sorry.
ReplyDeleteMy love of reading and writing began at an early age. I was in love with Emily Dickinson's poetry at age 6, and thus began my love of both reading and writing poetry. I wrote for my school newspapers, had my own column, and my school yearbooks. I have successflly written for several contests I have taught Creative Writing and enjoyed that class In graduate school my major paper was put forward for publication I try to keep a journal...not always with the greatest sccess, and hope to make writing a greater part of my life in retirement.
ReplyDelete