I Saw It On TV

Special thanks to Christian for making this one happen.

I have a framed black-and-white photograph of two-year-old me. I am sitting in front of the massive Zenith TV. In terms of composition, is the photograph about me or the TV?

My late aunt took this picture and, while she was a good photographer, what is interesting is that she didn’t angle the snapshot to frame me. All she had to do was stand by the TV. Perhaps that would miss the point.

Mine was the TV generation. Wasn’t it on Mad Men that Don came home the day JFK was killed to find Sally abandoned to the boob tube, alone, while Betty lay in bed upstairs?

My mother might have looked at me and saw that TV had taken over, as well. Consider the Shake-and-Bake moment.

We were standing in a grocery store on Elmhurst’s Roosevelt Avenue. I wanted a box of Shake-and-Bake.

“Why?” my mother asked.

“Because I saw it on TV,” I said.

“But I can make this myself,” my mother answered, incredulous, as she examined the box.

She was a good cook who made simple nutritious meals. Why her silly child wanted bread crumbs in a box was beyond her. Oh, and the added price for the plastic bag to do the shaking in. By the way, this moment took place less than a decade after Desk Set’s Spencer Tracy showed Katherine Hepburn his version of Shake-and-Bake: flour, salt, and pepper in a brown paper bag.

My mother missed the part where the product, to say nothing of the red chicken image on the box, captivated me. Because I saw it on TV.

Has TV, like the image in the photograph taken over? At one time, it did. There’s no question I would have been a better student had I not done my high school homework to The Odd Couple. On the other hand, years later I watched my middle school students beg for music as they wrote their in-class assignments. The teenage brain may need more stimulation. These days, I can’t write unless in total silence. There’s too much surrounding stimulation.

What I love about the Shake-and-Bake moment is that my mother tried to reason with me, as if I understood that there was a connection between her lovely meals and a bag in a box.

She totally missed the point: I saw it on TV.

Carrot Cake

Last week I was in Boston. At a friend’s birthday dinner, we had carrot cake for desert.

Carrot cake. It comes in so many forms. There’s the way too sweet one found in diners, and the ten layer version — insert exclamation point here —  we had at dinner. At a Russian cafe in Brooklyn’s Bay Ridge I recently tasted one made with beets and a burnt meringue frosting. Lovely.

Then there is the Moosewood. Ah, the Moosewood. So many memories.  This iconic cookbook was given to me by a dear friend and college roommate alongside the Enchanted Broccoli Forest. One of the first recipes I made was carrot cake, only partly because my dad loved it. Almost as much as he adored cheesecake. 

The Moosewood was written in the era of processed sugar as mortal enemy and macrobiotic diets the choice of those who these days would most likely be vegan. 

The writing was comforting, and the visuals were charming. Indeed, founding member and chef Molly Katzen says, “The Moosewood Cookbook grew, in part, out of a looseleaf binder filled with random notes intended to help keep track of what we were cooking in the tiny kitchen of our modest 1970s restaurant.”

As a self-published author — should I be saying “independently published”? — I was thrilled to read Katzen’s introduction to the 40th Anniversary Addition -- wherein she discussed the Moosewood’s modest publishing history: “Our customers…also wanted to be able to replicate what we were making in their own kitchens. Requests for copies became routine…eventually I put together a series of pages…eight hundred copies of the resulting booklet sold out in a week.”

And here were are. Time to make carrot cake.

We Weren’t That Old

Eventually I pick them up. Sometimes it just takes awhile.

Michael, the owner of the Chinese hand laundry was climbing on the counter to reach my shirts from a higher shelf.

I looked at my ticket. Apricot. The ones on the shelf below mine were pale pink.

“Are the pink ones newer?” I asked, needing to solve a nagging lifelong mystery.

“Yes,” Michael responded.

If the apricot-colored tickets are newer, I thought, what about all the other pastel- colored tickets? The ones attached to the ubiquitous brown paper packages tied up with string which line all the walls in the place.

“We weren’t that old,” I said to my husband as I walked out, feeling just slightly less guilty than I normally do.

I’ve been dropping off our shirts at San Toy Laundry since 1988, when I moved to Park Slope, Michael once told The New York Times, “This is an old-fashioned kind of laundry — you don’t have them anymore…there used to be five Chinese laundries in Park Slope. Not anymore.”

I grew up with these laundries, where Chinese immigrants pressed the shirts by hand. They were once all over the city. I remember my dad dropping off his shirts at Yike Lee, in Yorkville, where I grew up, on 85th and Second. He would carry the brown package home and let me untie the string. Eh voila – I was greeted by a crisp, neatly pressed stack of folded patterned shirts bound by a pastel green strip of paper.

San Toy has not changed one bit since the first day I entered. It might have looked new in 1962. As it turns out this space has been occupied by a Chinese laundry for over a century, changing hands throughout the years.

The thing about San Toy is that it is cash only. Which brings me to why it sometimes takes me awhile. It’s a bad habit, and I have no excuse. I just sometimes drop shirts off then forget about them. Sadly, judging by the packages along the wall, I’m not the only one.

“These are all old — years ago,” Michael’s wife told The Times, “waving at most of the shirts and reaching up to pull down a random package. Never claimed. Its tag was from 2006.”

“People move away, they forget to pick them up,” she said of the packages. “But if we threw them away, the shelves would look empty, and we would not look busy.”

Indeed, they are faded -- even the pastel blues, greens, and yellows are washed out — compared to the fresher ones on the opposite shelves. Yet, even though, you need the ticket to retrieve your shirts – Michael gives you one that matches the one he pins to your bundle – he was kind enough to find our shirts when I once lost mine. It took a little time but his patience, and ever-present smile, reminded me why the neighborhood business, whether it’s the deli, bookshop, or dry cleaner, is so vital.

Several years ago, I dropped off a jacket at a dry cleaner after I wore it to an event at a school which closed at the end of that year. Not needing professional clothing for several months, I completely forgot about the jacket, having yet again misplaced the ticket. Several years went by. Then I remembered. Humbly, I walked in and asked the owner if she could help me. I described the jacket.

“When did you bring it in?” she asked.

 “Two years ago,” I answered.

 “Two years?!” she asked.

 She searched, she parted plastic bags, then she emerged, holding my jacket, perfectly pressed on its wire metal hanger.

At my regular dry cleaner, the old school ticket is no longer necessary. The computer knows where my clothing is, so not matter how many tickets I lose, the lovely woman behind the counter can always help.

Yet those pretty pastel tickets – what is it about them? As long as they exist, they remind me of the almost anachronistic analog world I grew up in, one that was not necessarily better, but that was somehow simpler, a bit more tactile, that gave you a certain satisfaction in clutching a pale colored laundry check, one that required you to also clutch something else: cold hard cash.

One beautiful bonus of walking into San Toy: “The rotary phone on the wall still works, and San Toy’s phone number — NEvins-8-3477 — has not changed since the 1930s.” – The New York Times.

The History of the Chinese Laundry in America

He Irons. She Stitches.

Calm and Centered

“For the first time in many years, a teacher was correcting my handwriting.” Jenny Gross, The New York Times

And here it is, yet again, another article about the benefits of handwriting. Although the article is focused on calligraphy, the principles of handwriting apply. “With so much digital fatigue, writing elegantly with pen and paper can be a joy.”

Recently, I’ve been drafting articles and blog posts initially in pen. It’s slower, movement based, and ultimately grounding. It leaves me feeling calm and centered.

Then, of course, there’s the research:

“Some preliminary studies suggest that working with your hands — whether by writing, knitting or drawing — can improve cognition and mood, and a study published in January by researchers in Norway found that writing by hand was beneficial for learning and engaged the brain more than typing on a keyboard. Some states, including California and New Hampshire, have begun reintroducing cursive (long regarded as obsolete in a digital age) into their curriculums, citing it as important for intellectual development.” – The New York Times

I briefly studied calligraphy as a child. Maybe it’s time to start again.

Countering Digital Fatigue, Calligraphy Is On the Upswing

“First-Come, First-Served, Cash Only”

These were the words heard at the Film Forum last Friday, when the software went down. “Like it was 1977,” someone said.

The medical office I was in that morning was in a tizzy. Everything was behind because there was no tech.

“ ‘Blue screen of death’ hits NYC gov computers; jail cameras, arrest software down in ‘unprecedented’ global tech outage,” said The New York Post.

Yet again, another reminder that computers will, from time to time, fail us. Of course, from a truly hypocritical standpoint, it’s easy for me to see this problem firsthand. After all, I wrote last week’s blog about my near miss when I misplaced my laptop.

I’ve been seeing more and more articles by professional writers, especially journalists, who are going back to pen and paper. While their reasons may not be directly related to tech meltdowns, they do speak to us about the need for another way, a tried-and-true method that rarely fails us. What’s the worst that can happen? Your pen runs out of ink?

The following is from a New York Times article from earlier this year, entitled, “Writers: Always Pack a Notebook”:

Pete Wells, the chief restaurant critic for The New York Times, was on vacation this month when he learned that the renowned chef David Bouley had died.

Mr. Wells felt a duty to write about Mr. Bouley’s legacy, but there was one problem: He hadn’t packed his laptop. He did, however, have a stenographer’s pad. So Mr. Wells reverted to the ways of old and wrote an appraisal of Mr. Bouley using pen and paper. For him, it was a refreshing exercise, and for readers, an intimate glimpse into the work of a journalist.

I took a trip to San Francisco last year and, like Wells, didn’t pack my laptop, instead bringing a small notebook and Bic ball point pen. While I’m not sure why Wells didn’t pack his, I can say for myself I was saving weight, both in luggage and my back. Because I write at home, I have the luxury of not having to carry my laptop with me. If I leave home to write, I often do so by hand.

Lightness, however, is not the only reason. The Internet is a major tool and a more-than-minor distraction. While I often use it for research as I write, I find that even the searches in the middle of sentences are interruptions which disrupt the free flow of thoughts. In another article from the Times, “The Case for Writing Longhand: ‘It’s About Trying to Create That Little Space of Freedom’ ”, journalist Sam Anderson says he “…likes that the process slows him down and puts him in touch with his thoughts.”

And, of course, there are the distractions -- the did-I-pay-that-bill, or why-don’t-I-look-at-some-cute-summer-dresses -- which the Internet is there for, simply luring you down the proverbial rabbit hole of industriousness or temptation.

Last week I discovered a new park in the neighborhood – well, actually, a little out of the way – which was precisely why it was so delightful. It was new to me, it was a different destination, and I simply sat with my pen and notebook and wrote for a half hour, completely uninterrupted. I need to be doing this more often. It gets me out of the house, out of my head, and out of the rut of doing the same thing in the same place every day.

There’s also something else: I’ve always felt better when part of my day is spent writing in cursive. There’s a lot of research out there that says we process information differently when we handwrite, possibly because we often type faster than we write. I also love to see other people’s handwriting and have lots of great samples I’ve collected over the years. Boy, would it be fun to see this journalist’s place:

“Sam Anderson’s home office in Beacon, N.Y., is a palace of longhand. There are paragraphs scrawled inside the covers of books. Words are wedged into the corners of ripped-open envelopes. His looping script snakes its way down notepads — and there are piles of filled ones.

On nearly every scrawlable surface, there’s Mr. Anderson’s handwriting. And often, those scraps are the start of a story.” – The New York Times

Searching for Rose

Last week I finished teaching a workshop at the New York Public Library, based on my recent publication, Object Essays. It was wonderful meeting new participants and greeting old friends. Above all, it was lovely, simply having fun talking about objects and how to write about them.

The following is an object essay I began at the start of the new year:

Someone once said, “Transitions are hard.” And the end-of-travel transition? The worst.

I spent the last morning of 2023 working on a novella in the back seat of a rental car home from Virginia. I was, on the one hand, feeling quite productive, and on the other, getting sleepier by the minute. I slipped my Rose, a compact gold Apple MacBook Air I’ve owned since 2018, into its black nylon case and placed it at my feet. After a nap I listened to a podcast, then I indulged in a movie on my phone, reasoning that this was a good way to kill the last two hours of a drive by bare trees and endless grey skies.

Rose and I have become quite close. It has been my trusted friend and daily confidant throughout sleepless nights, and productive days. Rose and I have paid bills, corresponded with corporations, managed family affairs, organized a whole world of post-modern communications, as well as catalogued my writing: articles, novels, short stories, and poems. Feeling that things had gotten a little out of control more recently, I decided it was time to clean the yard and start pruning away, deleting old files and saying goodbye to the clutter I no longer needed.

The end of any trip is the longing, the please-just-get-me-home transition of the plane landing but it’s another ten minutes before you can even get up, or the unloading of the car and the endless trips back for more luggage, or in our case food. Because after the “holiday extravaganza”, as a friend refers to it, or the “Christmas madness”, as I call it, there is always more food. And such food needs to be not only unloaded but immediately refrigerated. At the end of this trip, I found myself in the kitchen, making sure I got everything unpacked before it spoiled, which was perhaps the reason I did not go back for one more luggage-toting trip.

I needed to get outside and walk, so I ran some errands, feeling good about the coming new year, the fresh start, the wondering-if-I-could-do-anything-differently musings of a late day December walk. When I got home, my husband had already left, driving the rental car back to J.F.K. I ran a bath, climbing in with my new stack of Christmas books, thinking that life was, indeed, quite sweet. It was only when I got out and thought about working on a submission that was due on the third of the month, that I felt something was missing.

Rose’s power chord lay on my bed, looking lost and confused, wondering where its mate was. Surely it was nearby, ready to work, helping me finish a piece about the ubiquitous New York chestnut stand of yesteryear. I looked around at piled luggage, and strewn coats. I lifted cushions and investigated the hallway. And then it dawned on me: I hadn’t seen Rose since this morning, when I tucked it in at my feet before that nice long nap. Convinced that I was mistaken and that I’d surely find it within minutes, I consulted my husband, and spoke to my daughter, but multiple searches confirmed my new reality: Rose was gone. This, it seemed, was turning into my Hemingway moment.

The rest of the evening was a swirl of calls to National Car Rental, filing lost property reports, constantly checking such report status, battling my increasing anxiety, and the inevitable catastrophizing questions that come with it. Where was it, who had it, what files had been opened, what was on it, was there financial information, and the inevitable ask from my husband: “It’s locked, isn’t it?”

No, it wasn’t.

Yes, I had gotten a little cavalier about my tech tools. I’d never lost a phone and knew Rose’s whereabouts at all times. Yet recently my husband had reminded me to lock my phone, that my I’ll-never-lose-it-attitude was a dangerous game I was playing that I would eventually pay the price for. And here I was, knowing exactly where my phone was while feeling like I’d lost an arm without Rose. “It wasn’t locked?” my daughter asked.

Shutting down, I also tried to tell myself I had to be resilient, that on the one hand I didn’t know that anyone had gotten their hands on it, and on the other that it might be gone and that I would simply have to deal. What a test of the Buddhist idea on non-attachment this one was going to be. We watched hours of television to take my mind off, then, predictably, I slept terribly, waking every few hours to the nagging thoughts of my own stupidity, lack of awareness, and downright naivete: this kind of thing happened to other people. I was together, I didn’t lose things, I was always checking for my belongings.

But was I? What about the time I left a 35-millimeter Nikon FM on an airplane as a teenager, never to see it again? Or the multiple ten-speeds I’d parted with over the years, or the pockets I’d had picked in the bad old days in New York and on a Paris Metro in the ‘80s? Stop, I demanded of myself. It just happened, I argued. The Buddhists would say the problem is not the loss, but my attitude. That I was attached to my own anxiety instead of the reality that an object had simply gone missing.

Inevitably each recent project started haunting me; did I back everything up? What about all my bookmarked articles on writing, especially my favorite ones, like the piece about Graham Greene’s daily writing practice: 500 words each morning in a black leather notebook, written with a fountain pen, beforecoffee. Or the article that breaks down how The Wall Street Journal does their man-in-the street human interest features. What about all the travel articles, as well as the ones on film, and my short cuts to my own published pieces? It was a little world Rose and I had created, one where I knew the location of all my teammates, ready to comfort me and serve me both at night and during the day. I had even grown accustomed to how dinged up Rose, previously pristine, had become when dropped in the backyard last summer while chasing an errant dog, another test of my ability to accept imperfection. And no comfort was derived from the back-up laptop I received at the end of a recent teaching job. The keyboard was wonky, there was nothing on the desktop and it felt like a blank canvas while I had no idea what to put on it. It was no Rose.

After four hours of sleep, I gave up and went downstairs, making coffee at the ridiculous hour of 5 AM and thinking I would get some writing done. Only I couldn’t. Now the feelings of loss started to flood in; for the past 12 years, I’d had one laptop, then another, my Rose, with her smooth sleek metallic feel, that travelled all over the house with me, always at my side when I couldn’t sleep, helping me find solace in a way-too-early cup of coffee and an hour of writing before heading back to bed.

As I stared into the abyss of my coffee cup, wondering why, on this of all mornings, it wasn’t working its magic, I patiently waited for my husband to get up, so that he could accompany me to National Car Rental. This was not the way to start the new year, I thought, huddled on an A train bound for J.F.K. without any luggage.

I sat on the subway, trying to console myself. Rose was either there or it wasn’t. There was nothing I could do about it. I had done everything I could. When we switched to the AirTrain and pulled into the station, I was greeted by a sea of rental cars below. All I could think was that maybe, just maybe, my little Rose, slumbering away in its black case, was patiently waiting for me to find it and take it home so we could make more words together. On the other hand, what were the odds?

The place was busy. Lots of New Years’ travelers. We finally made it to the agent, and I explained my dilemma. She looked in the lost-and-found system, but no one had turned in a laptop. Beyond that, the issue came down to this: was our rental now rented out to someone else? In which case, there was no hope. The agent looked up our car, and it was miraculously on the lot. Pushing the envelope, something my husband is very good at doing, he kindly asked if someone could check the back of the car to see if the laptop was still there. The agent said she would try.

We sat. We waited. We watched lots of tourists come and go. Forty-five long tick-tock minutes went by. And then, a uniformed National Car Rental attendant approached the agent, carrying Rose, like a tray, just the way I had left it, in its black nylon case.

Back home, I lovingly connected Rose with its mate, the aforesaid power chord, and as it purred back to 100% battery capacity, I gave it a sigh. Relief didn’t cut it, although happiness came quite close. Dozens of thoughts flooded my brain, but the main one, a second chance, said it all.

Never again would I be so careless, so cavalier, and above all else, I would always check for my belongings.

Object Essay Writing

Last week I taught an Object Essays workshop, the first of its kind, at the newly renovated Mid-Manhattan Library, now known as the Stavros Niarchos Foundation Library.

A gorgeous site, it was an absolute delight to bring the world of object essay writing to new participants, as well as some good friends, from previous Writer’s Circle workshops.

What a joy it was to be teaching at the library again.

Summer Stories

“The news has gotten grimmer, and the world has gotten grimmer. People need a break from the seriousness of global warming and war and political feuding. These kinds of stories give people that moment. – Steven Kurutz, The New York Times

 The girl was walking the dog. Mom was beside her.

I’d seen them before, going in this direction. My dog is large, her dog is small. Like most small children, though, she is in her world. She has her dog, and I have mine. She is focused on walking hers.

With the arrival of summer and the end of school, the neighborhood has, in places, settled into a summer slumber. The days are long, and time and the sun stretch out. The streets are quiet, there is less traffic, but the playgrounds are full. The neighborhood pool is open. The sprinkler is on; the ice cream truck is parked. A mother and two sons enjoy their cones.

My late mother-in-law once said she loved being with her children in the summer, stress free from schedules, homework, and math. The mother on the street seems to be enjoying her time with her little one, and the girl is taking her job quite seriously, walking the dog, a Fisher-Price beagle that thwacks on the ground as its owner pulls a long cotton string.

There are summer stories everywhere.

Going Out

Last week I went to a concert. And I thought of my dad. He would have been 95 this June.

Central Park’s Naumburg Bandshell had fallen on hard times when I was a kid. Covered in graffiti and simply looking sad, it would be decades before it would see the elegant restoration it recently received.

On the program: the overture to Mozart’s Le Nozze de Figaro, Louise Ferrenc’s Symphony Number Three, and the glorious Pastorale of Beethoven, one of Daniel’s favorites.

I remember the album cover of Daniel’s copy of the Pastorale from when I was a child; I can’t think of how many times I’ve heard it played over the years; but to hear it live in Central Park, of all places, surrounded by lush and leafy elms from the 19th century? Heavenly.

A cloudless sky. Birds accompanied the glorious flute trills, several school-aged children sat in rapt attention, and an older couple planted themselves on the ground with their perfectly poised charge, most likely a grandchild, who listened to the concert while eating a slice of watermelon.

Daniel gave me the gift of music. I could not be more grateful.

On Top of the World

“Catch a wave and you’re sitting on top of the world.” – The Beach Boys

 The boy was talking to the waves, arguing with them, perhaps even trying to fight them.

I was at the beach, my season opener, and I was already in a great mood. The playlist was cued, the sun was out. And then I saw him.

He was about eight years of age, and he was having some kind of communication with the waves, part dance, part karate. If I had to interpret, I’d say he was getting up the nerve to go in. I finally stuck my toes in and stopped paying attention, thinking about the sensations of the moment – the visual (sun, open sky); the sound (waves crashing); the feeling (sand, water); and the smell (salt). What have I left out? Oh, taste. We’d just had bagels, and everything somehow tastes better at the beach.

If I wrote about this, it would be the perfect sense memory moment. Then I turned and I saw the boy, having plunged in, happier than he was – if this was possible – mere moments before.  

And in that moment, I was on top of the world.

Walking Away

“Nature had come into her own again and, little by little, in her stealthy, insidious way had encroached upon the drive with long, tenacious fingers ....” (Rebecca, Daphne du Maurier)

I always think of those words when gardening, especially in Virginia, where the wisteria has taken over, having a mind of its own, simply laughing at those of us foolish enough to think we can control her. Luckily, the hot weather prevents me from doing more than a little work in the morning, then perhaps a bit at the end of the day. The sun saves me.

A term I only learned recently was being in the weeds, which while perfect for gardening is also apt for writing, in which you can sometimes find yourself tangled and confused. This is when walking away, one of my favorite ideas, comes into play. Before you get to the point of utter frustration, try walking away and taking a deep breath. Go outside. Think about something else. Come back when ready.

I first heard of the Pomodoro Technique when I taught middle school. In this method, you work without distraction (hide that phone) for 25 minutes (I use 30), then you stop, take a break, and return. I cannot tell you how much I have achieved, using this approach, not only for writing, but for a multitude of daily living tasks, as well. It is the “without interruption” part that is crucial, the total focus, and grounding in the moment, that is the key here.  

In case you’re wondering, pomodoro comes from the tomato-shaped kitchen timer Francesco Cirillo used when he was a student at Rome’s Luiss Business School in the late 1980s.

Breaking It Down, Part II

The great Italian cookbook author, Marcella, Hazen once wrote, “Words are capable of mysterious chemistry. Taken singly, the three common words [Good Italian Cooking] appear plain enough in their meaning. We can use any one of them in ordinary conversation, confident we’ll be understood. But put just two of them together and you can set off a debate.”

Last week, I wrote about focusing on fun words before creating “perfect” sentences. But I love Hazen’s idea of word chemistry and mixing and matching as we come up with different meanings.

Here’s an example from my walk the other day: electric green field. It was early and the sun drenched the field, giving the new growth a bright green quality as if it had been electrified.

You can put green and field together; this meaning is clear. What about electric and green? How about switching? Green electric. And then there is electric field…

So many choices, yet not a sentence to be found…

Breaking It Down

The Week In Writing is Back! I’m thrilled and grateful for a coffee conversation with a friend about writing and all its myriad challenges.

Here’s a story that illustrates one of the many of these myriad challenges. Years ago, I was in Boston, visiting friends, and I had a knitting project with me. My host suggested that we go to the local yarn shop, where I got into a great conversation with the manager about the challenges she sees with beginning knitters. She said that it’s rare that students want to start at the beginning and make something achievable, like a scarf. More often, they want to make a sweater, which is an advanced project that you have to work your way up to. Her point was that you have to go through the stages of learning a new skill and that, most importantly, you have to learn to tolerate the frustration of the learning curve.

I’ve seen this over and over with writing students of all ages. They want perfection, and don’t want frustration. Of course they don’t. Who does? Yet, as we all know, you can’t get to at least better writing without frustration.

That said, here’s an idea: before writing sentences, write down words. Words you like, words that please you, words that conjure images you’d like to write about. Why do this? Because you’re just coming up with words, not trying to write the perfect sentence.

Here’s another idea: write down the word perfect. Now write down a few words about its meaning.

See where this takes you…

Celebrate: Second Edition

December was a full, yet short month. Adding a new close-reading initiative, in preparation for the state exam in March, made it even fuller.

A welcome end came with the last day of school and an activity period. Students did winter-themed word searches and crossword puzzles, while snacking on cookies and candy canes. They also watched The Grinchand listened to holiday music.

It was a beautiful thing.

Celebrate

Perhaps it was the location. Maybe it was the size of the group. Then again, it could be the cookies.

The last three days of school were spent celebrating some 7th graders. This was not a whole class activity, though. We were honoring the 90% -- those students who, since September, have consistently done the right thing in the classroom. They make up a silent majority, but they struggle in their own way against those students who are more vocal. 

In every class I’ve taught, I’ve tried to champion these students – no easy feat, when you realize how much time is devoted to the 10%. The moment of truth comes when you have the space to have a conversation with one of these students and you are horrified to discover you barely know them.

Outside the head-of-school’s office, we sat at a large table, talked, did a free write, and ate home-baked chocolate-chip cookies. Some groups were more successful than others. There is always a dynamic. The most joyous one, in my opinion, was the one where there were constant smiles, laughs, and lots of writing.

What better way to start the Thanksgiving break?

Order Out of Chaos

And then there were the seventh graders.

A portion of them is struggling. There are behavioral issues, and a memory lapse of what school is all about. Still, they come every day and make some kind of effort. 

The bigger picture is that writing is hard, no matter where you teach. Some students will get it, and some will not. For those that will not, it’s much harder to catch up because writing, unlike math or reading, is not concrete. It is personal.

Then there is the pandemic, with its masks, and sneeze guards, and community-busting mandate. Where does one even begin?

In addition, our school is in the struggling neighborhood of Brownsville, where 36% of residents live below the federal poverty line, and 44% of adults are unemployed. It also is home to the largest concentration of public housing in the U.S.

Oh, and then there is that little matter of adolescence, including hormones, and an I’m-not-going-to-listen-to-anything-you-say attitude. A winning picture, overall.

And yet, amidst all of this, the seventh graders put together research papers on the Holocaust. Some were rudimentary, reflecting all the work that needs to be done this year, and some were extraordinary, showing thought, effort, and tenacity. 

Somehow, there was order out of sheer chaos.

Cookies and Popcorn

Okay, they didn’t all read their own work. Some of them wanted to but asked me. As usual, I was honored.

The eighth graders worked so hard on their personal statements, and we finally got to the publishing party. About half the class shared their pieces, and the most-covered topics were overcoming challenges, and learning to ask for help. I was so proud of the effort they put in, as well as their ability to accept gentle support in making their writing stronger.

At the end, there were homemade chocolate chip cookies and popcorn. Not a bad way to end the week.

About the Pandemic

They wrote about anxiety. They wrote about depression. Finally, they wrote about death.

This week’s writing prompt: how did the pandemic affect you?

Some of them didn’t want to write about the pandemic. That was fine. I wasn’t going to make them. The point was to get everyone writing.

Then there were the share outs. This is where it got really interesting. One class did really well with respectfully listening to their classmates without comment. The other class, not so much. Also, some students asked me to read their pieces. Their subject matter was too painful for them to read. I was honored they asked.

These Friday writing sessions have been a powerful reminder of how important it is to give students agency and a chance to be heard. Just one of the many reasons students should write as much as possible.

Share Outs

For the first time since school started, the seventh graders got to read their writing.

It was the day before Halloween, and they were in costumes. It was time to give them a break and have some fun. What was so encouraging was seeing how excited they were to do some creative writing and sharing it out.

Now it‘s time to do this on a regular basis. We owe it to them.

Prize Winner

I shared the news that Abdulrazak Gurnah had won the Nobel Prize in Literature with my eighth-grade writing class last week.

 Gurnah began writing in a dairy when he was forced to leave his native Zanzibar for England in 1964.

“Miserable, poor, homesick, he began to write scraps about home in his diary, then longer entries, then stories about other people. Those scattered reflections, the habit of writing to understand and document his own dislocation, eventually gave rise to his first novel, then nine more — works that explore the lingering trauma of colonialism, war and displacement.” – The New York Times

I encouraged the students to write in their journals at home. For Gurnah, it all started with a diary, I told them.

“Can I apply for that prize?” one of the students asked.