For anyone reading this blog who is not in EDAP 540, read this book.
The Book Thief was easily the best novel I've read in several years. It's a positively gut-wrenching story of a young German girl during WWII, and it was probably the first thing I've read since college that truly impressed me with the sheer artistry of the writing. Zusak writes with a special kind of awareness, playing with and confusing the senses just enough to make you have to stop and think over his vivid descriptions without making them too obscure to be understood and felt. He could have written about a perfectly idyllic summer in the relatively uneventful life of a completely average child and still created a compelling narrative so rich in detail as to be nearly heart-breaking.
Instead, he wrote about a few sorrow and triumph-filled years in a poor, war-torn community, following a young girl who seems to attract grief as surely as honey attracts flies. The voice through which he tells this story is that of Death, whom he makes surprisingly believable as an overworked and sympathetic character who himself--against his better judgment--becomes fascinated and falls in love with the story's heroine.
As I mentioned in our class discussion about the book, one of the things I really liked was the new perspective it offers on Germany during World War II. This is not a Holocaust book, despite having a Jew-in-hiding as a primary character. It's a life-during-wartime story and a reminder that not every German in the 1930s and '40s was a Nazi, and that there were consequences for those who were not. It was, without question, an evil time and--in that time--an evil place (or at least a place filled with evil), but for many that evil was just something to be lived through on the hope of a better future. And many, including some of the most lovable characters in The Book Thief, would not live through it, would not see that hope confirmed.
One last thing: For me, the book's protagonist, Liesel Meminger, is a beautifully crafted symbol of childrens' ability to remain children through the hardest and darkest of times, as well as their paradoxical ability to become adults when they must. She is the human spirit, which is both most vulnerable and most resilient in childhood, and for those of us who work with children, she is a reminder of what kids can be, and what they will be--both of which we should bear in mind and do our best never to stifle.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
Reading Response: The Warrior Heir
A few weeks ago, I was charged to visit the teen lit. section of a bookstore and pick out a book that appealed to me. I bounced around a bit and eventually walked out with The Warrior Heir by Cinda Williams Chima. To summarize, Jack is a pretty average 16 year-old in a small Ohio town who finds out that he's descended from a race of magical people--wizards and such. He's a warrior, his mom doesn't know, his caretaker's a wizard, his aunt's an enchantress, and he has as much trouble following it all as I'm having explaining it. With this revelation, Jack not only has to deal with new knowledge about himself and many people he knows, but also with new characters in his life who may or may not be trustworthy. He's being hunted by wizards from both of the two warring houses (White Rose and Red Rose), who either want him to fight under their flag in "The Game," a battle to the death between two warriors that determines which house will retain power until the next game, or who want to kill him so he can't fight. Meanwhile, his friends and family are trying to keep him out of the game, the new assistant principle is training him to fight, and he's trying to keep his secret from his mother and best friends.
If I were a teenager, I would have liked this book a lot more--except that this is not at all the kind of book I liked to read when I was a teenager. Unlike the Harry Potter series (which I have not read), Chima's "Heir" books (there are three: The Warrior Heir, The Wizard Heir, and The Dragon Heir) don't so much transport readers to a new universe existing alongside their own reality as they pull at the possibility of an unknown, magical undercurrent to our reality. That being the case, this book deals with a teenager's struggle to accept a new dimension of self-knowledge and to somehow balance his two lives--to study for school and learn wizard magic, to practice for soccer and for battle, to keep his friends from asking too many questions even after they see him dig up a sword in a graveyard and shoot fire from it. The writing is not overly florid or hard to swallow--teen readers should have no problem with it--and the story has plenty of suspense, plot twists, and adventure. When I came into the last few chapters of the book, after a certain plot revelation that I'll not disclose, I found myself eager for the end, both because I was kind of tired of reading the book and because I wanted to see how Jack would solve this latest challenge.
Perhaps for teenagers who'd like to imagine an extra layer of excitement in their own lives, this kind of fantasy works. For myself, I think I prefer wizards and warriors in their own places and times, without the distractions of modern teenage life--or soccer, which is far from my favorite sport and got plenty of spotlight in this book. My "sword and sorcery" archetype is Robert E. Howard's Conan, of course, who is the opposite of Jack: a savage barbarian and natural to combat who navigates through civilization by wit and instinct while having little use for social conventions. I doubt that I'll be reading the other books in the series, but that definitely would not stop me from recommending this one to a teen reader as an accessible, imaginative adventure story.
Also, it could have used a few dragons.
If I were a teenager, I would have liked this book a lot more--except that this is not at all the kind of book I liked to read when I was a teenager. Unlike the Harry Potter series (which I have not read), Chima's "Heir" books (there are three: The Warrior Heir, The Wizard Heir, and The Dragon Heir) don't so much transport readers to a new universe existing alongside their own reality as they pull at the possibility of an unknown, magical undercurrent to our reality. That being the case, this book deals with a teenager's struggle to accept a new dimension of self-knowledge and to somehow balance his two lives--to study for school and learn wizard magic, to practice for soccer and for battle, to keep his friends from asking too many questions even after they see him dig up a sword in a graveyard and shoot fire from it. The writing is not overly florid or hard to swallow--teen readers should have no problem with it--and the story has plenty of suspense, plot twists, and adventure. When I came into the last few chapters of the book, after a certain plot revelation that I'll not disclose, I found myself eager for the end, both because I was kind of tired of reading the book and because I wanted to see how Jack would solve this latest challenge.
Perhaps for teenagers who'd like to imagine an extra layer of excitement in their own lives, this kind of fantasy works. For myself, I think I prefer wizards and warriors in their own places and times, without the distractions of modern teenage life--or soccer, which is far from my favorite sport and got plenty of spotlight in this book. My "sword and sorcery" archetype is Robert E. Howard's Conan, of course, who is the opposite of Jack: a savage barbarian and natural to combat who navigates through civilization by wit and instinct while having little use for social conventions. I doubt that I'll be reading the other books in the series, but that definitely would not stop me from recommending this one to a teen reader as an accessible, imaginative adventure story.
Also, it could have used a few dragons.
Monday, September 15, 2008
EDTP 540: Reading Response: Wilhelm, Chapter 2
Although I felt this chapter served mostly as a bridge into what's to come, it does wrestle a bit with an important issue for English teachers, the question of why we teach literature. In light of the first part of the chapter, which basically tells us that (for Wilhelm's middle schoolers, at least) school, not reading, is the reason kids don't like to read--and kids know it--the question takes on a sort of pessimistic tone. "If all we're doing is killing reading for these kids, why don't we just teach technical texts and let kids hold onto some faith that reading literaure might be different?
Since Wilhelm got this book published, and we're reading it, I'm assuming he found some way to have kids read in school without ruining their reading experiences. I'm eager to hear about it. In the meantime, I actually began working on the "why teach literature" question in another class, and I have my own answer: My purpose as an English teacher is to teach kids how to use the language, how to be effective and fluent communicators. In order to be enthused about that, they need to see examples of what the English language is capable of doing. Writers of literature are experts of language who test its potential. On a sticky note left in one of my books, I jotted a vague analogy about a boxer-in-training watching videos of Muhammad Ali. Sure, any bozo who's had a few sessions and a few fights can teach you the basics of the sport, but to see the art of it and to see what you could be reaching for (even if you have no intention of reaching all the way), you need to visit with the experts.
This isn't an argument for "the classics" or "the canon" in high schools. Just for real, good literature that kids can enjoy for its artful and clever use of language, not just its subject.
Since Wilhelm got this book published, and we're reading it, I'm assuming he found some way to have kids read in school without ruining their reading experiences. I'm eager to hear about it. In the meantime, I actually began working on the "why teach literature" question in another class, and I have my own answer: My purpose as an English teacher is to teach kids how to use the language, how to be effective and fluent communicators. In order to be enthused about that, they need to see examples of what the English language is capable of doing. Writers of literature are experts of language who test its potential. On a sticky note left in one of my books, I jotted a vague analogy about a boxer-in-training watching videos of Muhammad Ali. Sure, any bozo who's had a few sessions and a few fights can teach you the basics of the sport, but to see the art of it and to see what you could be reaching for (even if you have no intention of reaching all the way), you need to visit with the experts.
This isn't an argument for "the classics" or "the canon" in high schools. Just for real, good literature that kids can enjoy for its artful and clever use of language, not just its subject.
Monday, September 8, 2008
EDTP 540: Reading Response: Wilhelm Intro & Ch. 1
At the close of the introduction, Wilhelm briefly introduces a girl he calls Joanne. I liked Joanne, and I'd like to get to know her better. I like that she was forthright enough with her teacher to tell him, "You're not interested in how I read." I like that she's savvy enough to separate what is right or true for her from "what you all (teachers) think is right." And I like that after she "does what she has to" in school, she goes home and spends time on "real reading." (Wilhelm, 10) That is, of course, pleasure reading, apart from quizzes, questions, and assigned page quotas.
Yeah, I like Joanne, but how many kids are like her? I always thought I was pretty smart, and I always thought I loved to read, but even now as a grad student I have trouble bringing myself to do much pleasure reading after all my school reading. As teachers, can we make all reading "real reading?" Can we let kids who have sports, TV, video games, hi-tech toys, and the internet only read pleasurable material? Is it possible to make everything they read a pleasure? Of course not, so where do we start, and where do we stop?
Wilhelm notes that his students "didn't seem to converse with or critique characters, authors, or other readers." (23) Maybe Joanne did, but she knew well enough not to do it in school. I bring this point up, though, because the trutt is that we can't make all reading a pleasure, but we can teach kids that it's ok for them to dislike a book. We can let them know that even English teachers sometimes read books that we don't like, or even stop reading books that we don't like. We can stop cramming the institution down their throats and admit that we didn't get Shakespeare the first time either, Bronte is a bore, and every time I sat down to read Heart of Darkness in high school, I literally fell asleep. I did get through it, but it took a while.
I suppose you'll always have the "Marvins" who just think that reading is stupid, but you'll also have the Joannes, and if kids who like to read don't like to read for your class, you're doing it wrong.
Yeah, I like Joanne, but how many kids are like her? I always thought I was pretty smart, and I always thought I loved to read, but even now as a grad student I have trouble bringing myself to do much pleasure reading after all my school reading. As teachers, can we make all reading "real reading?" Can we let kids who have sports, TV, video games, hi-tech toys, and the internet only read pleasurable material? Is it possible to make everything they read a pleasure? Of course not, so where do we start, and where do we stop?
Wilhelm notes that his students "didn't seem to converse with or critique characters, authors, or other readers." (23) Maybe Joanne did, but she knew well enough not to do it in school. I bring this point up, though, because the trutt is that we can't make all reading a pleasure, but we can teach kids that it's ok for them to dislike a book. We can let them know that even English teachers sometimes read books that we don't like, or even stop reading books that we don't like. We can stop cramming the institution down their throats and admit that we didn't get Shakespeare the first time either, Bronte is a bore, and every time I sat down to read Heart of Darkness in high school, I literally fell asleep. I did get through it, but it took a while.
I suppose you'll always have the "Marvins" who just think that reading is stupid, but you'll also have the Joannes, and if kids who like to read don't like to read for your class, you're doing it wrong.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Daddy Don't Live In That New York City No More
Last night, Julie and I watched Ghostbusters. It was the first time I'd seen the movie in many years, and aside from being one of the greatest movies EVER, it prominently features my alma mater (and the statue Alma Mater), Columbia University. Unlike that crummy World Trade Center movie with Nick Cage's stupid moustache and completely failed attempt at a Noo Yawk accent, Ghostbusters actually reminded me that there are things about that place I miss and probably always will.
For one, most of the shots I recognized were places I walked every day in college. My parents tell me I missed out on a real college experience, and I'll admit that I was never as happy as a college kid should be, but I was still a college kid--and I was GOOD at being a college kid, in my own way.
But it's not just college I miss sometimes. The saying in New York is, "If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere." No. I've known and come into varying degrees of many people who were doing just fine in New York but who, I assure you, could not make it anywhere--and possibly couldn't really make it anywhere BUT New York. The truth is, New York ain't so tough. It's expensive, crowded, and has more bad attitude per capita than a lineup of Rocky Balboa's opponents, but it has the most thorough public transportation system in the world, and the whole place is a numbered grid. All NYC takes is a little getting used to, and the reward is a sense of ownership and personal possibility you can't find just anywhere.
One of the things I hate most about New Yorkers is their apparent sense of entitlement and superiority. I will admit, though, that living in New York makes you feel like the star of your very own movie. Maybe it's the scale of everything around you, or maybe it's the way a place that crowded forces you inside your own head. On the other hand, when you're that close to so many people every day, knowing that each one has his own story, there's another sense of possibility that floats around you. Not personal possibility, not I-can-go-anywhere-I-can-do-anything possibility, but a more romantic possibility. The City holds so many incredible and unlikely stories; why shouldn't yours be one of them? It's easy to forget the odds, I guess.
For me, New York was always the best when you could feel its history. I liked the places that hadn't changed much in a hundred years. I liked the museums and parks. I'd stand in Central Park and look at the apartment buildings that lined it and imagine what the view must have been like in the 1920s. I could sit for hours in the sculpture garden at the Met, or wander through the Natural History Museum. Or I liked the City at Christmas time, all the places I went with my family as a kid--Rockefeller Center, FAO Schwartz, St. Patrick's Cathedral.
As I was writing this, I was (coincidentally, mostly) listening to Bruce Springsteen's 2nd album, which has two New York songs, "Incident on 57th Street" and "New York City Serenade." They both tell stories of the romance of the every-day in New York City: sweeping, epic ballads of average kids doing average kid things in NYC. That's the way the place makes you feel.
That is, when you're not too busy being rushed, stressed, grumpy, antisocial, crowded, and lonely to notice. That's a New York state of mind.
For one, most of the shots I recognized were places I walked every day in college. My parents tell me I missed out on a real college experience, and I'll admit that I was never as happy as a college kid should be, but I was still a college kid--and I was GOOD at being a college kid, in my own way.
But it's not just college I miss sometimes. The saying in New York is, "If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere." No. I've known and come into varying degrees of many people who were doing just fine in New York but who, I assure you, could not make it anywhere--and possibly couldn't really make it anywhere BUT New York. The truth is, New York ain't so tough. It's expensive, crowded, and has more bad attitude per capita than a lineup of Rocky Balboa's opponents, but it has the most thorough public transportation system in the world, and the whole place is a numbered grid. All NYC takes is a little getting used to, and the reward is a sense of ownership and personal possibility you can't find just anywhere.
One of the things I hate most about New Yorkers is their apparent sense of entitlement and superiority. I will admit, though, that living in New York makes you feel like the star of your very own movie. Maybe it's the scale of everything around you, or maybe it's the way a place that crowded forces you inside your own head. On the other hand, when you're that close to so many people every day, knowing that each one has his own story, there's another sense of possibility that floats around you. Not personal possibility, not I-can-go-anywhere-I-can-do-anything possibility, but a more romantic possibility. The City holds so many incredible and unlikely stories; why shouldn't yours be one of them? It's easy to forget the odds, I guess.
For me, New York was always the best when you could feel its history. I liked the places that hadn't changed much in a hundred years. I liked the museums and parks. I'd stand in Central Park and look at the apartment buildings that lined it and imagine what the view must have been like in the 1920s. I could sit for hours in the sculpture garden at the Met, or wander through the Natural History Museum. Or I liked the City at Christmas time, all the places I went with my family as a kid--Rockefeller Center, FAO Schwartz, St. Patrick's Cathedral.
As I was writing this, I was (coincidentally, mostly) listening to Bruce Springsteen's 2nd album, which has two New York songs, "Incident on 57th Street" and "New York City Serenade." They both tell stories of the romance of the every-day in New York City: sweeping, epic ballads of average kids doing average kid things in NYC. That's the way the place makes you feel.
That is, when you're not too busy being rushed, stressed, grumpy, antisocial, crowded, and lonely to notice. That's a New York state of mind.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Recognition
Substitute teaching is thankless work most of the time, but I'd be amiss to say I don't get any recognition for it. Two girls in Whole Foods, when I worked over the summer, recognized me from a middle school class. When I volunteered for Every 1 Reads, one of my student's classmates told me he had seen me at Kroger. Later, I saw my student himself at Kroger.
I was out bowling last night with my girlfriend and some friends, and I was found out again. Spotted. Caught being more than just a teacher. A few minutes after we took our lane, a little girl whose family was in the next lane walked over to me, her father just a few steps behind, and asked what grade I teach. I explained to her that I'm a sub and teach all grades, and her father explained to me, in turn, that she had seen me at Klondike Elementary. "Oh yeah," I said, "I was there last week. Third grade. It was a good day--good school." And that was all.
Personally, I think it's good for kids to see teachers outside of school, outside of the context of our jobs. It reminds them that we're people, that we have lives outside of and away from their perception of us. It didn't worry me that this girl, who wasn't even my student the day I subbed at her school but could have--in theory--been any student I have ever had or will have, saw me out with my friends with tattoos and stretched ears. I didn't care that she saw the chain on my wallet or the big skull on the back of my heavy metal t-shirt. I had no beer (contrary to the spirit of bowling, I know), but even that would not have bothered me.
I just hope she didn't notice what a completely awful bowler I am.
I was out bowling last night with my girlfriend and some friends, and I was found out again. Spotted. Caught being more than just a teacher. A few minutes after we took our lane, a little girl whose family was in the next lane walked over to me, her father just a few steps behind, and asked what grade I teach. I explained to her that I'm a sub and teach all grades, and her father explained to me, in turn, that she had seen me at Klondike Elementary. "Oh yeah," I said, "I was there last week. Third grade. It was a good day--good school." And that was all.
Personally, I think it's good for kids to see teachers outside of school, outside of the context of our jobs. It reminds them that we're people, that we have lives outside of and away from their perception of us. It didn't worry me that this girl, who wasn't even my student the day I subbed at her school but could have--in theory--been any student I have ever had or will have, saw me out with my friends with tattoos and stretched ears. I didn't care that she saw the chain on my wallet or the big skull on the back of my heavy metal t-shirt. I had no beer (contrary to the spirit of bowling, I know), but even that would not have bothered me.
I just hope she didn't notice what a completely awful bowler I am.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Welcome to Beard School!
To be honest, I'm not 100% sure what I'll be doing with this blog, but here it is. Most likely, I'll be using it to keep track of my reading--just reactions, mostly; not even what you could really call reviews. Knowing myself, though, I'd say it's not unlikely I'll get hooked and start blogging about all kinds of who-knows-what.
Let's start, though, with the name of the blog. Why "Beard School?" A few years ago, at my first apartment in Jersey City, NJ, I got mail from my high school. My roommate thought it was a joke. She came into my room with the letter.
"Is this for real? Morristown Beard School?"
Sure was, but it's pronounced bared, not beered (named after headmistress Lucy C. Beard) and dress code required that I be clean shaven. (Having no choice in the matter of my own facial hair as a teenager might have influenced my adult fascination with beards, but that's another story.) I probably don't have to explain that my roommate thought it was a school of beards, not a snooty private high school whose administrators thought scruffy-faced kids would scare away their funding.
Point is, I liked the idea of a Beard School, and now that I'm simultaneously a teacher and a student, dedicating a blog to both, well, what else would I call it? Plus, you know, I have a giant beard.
Let's start, though, with the name of the blog. Why "Beard School?" A few years ago, at my first apartment in Jersey City, NJ, I got mail from my high school. My roommate thought it was a joke. She came into my room with the letter.
"Is this for real? Morristown Beard School?"
Sure was, but it's pronounced bared, not beered (named after headmistress Lucy C. Beard) and dress code required that I be clean shaven. (Having no choice in the matter of my own facial hair as a teenager might have influenced my adult fascination with beards, but that's another story.) I probably don't have to explain that my roommate thought it was a school of beards, not a snooty private high school whose administrators thought scruffy-faced kids would scare away their funding.
Point is, I liked the idea of a Beard School, and now that I'm simultaneously a teacher and a student, dedicating a blog to both, well, what else would I call it? Plus, you know, I have a giant beard.
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