For the next three weeks, I will be participating in the Montana Writing Project, an intensive college course on writing instruction. I have always enjoyed writing (hence the blogs), but I have never felt all that great about writing on command in particular genres. I know we have several big projects we'll be doing, and that I have to perform well on them in order to get a good grade in the class. I need these credits to renew my teaching license, so it's really important that I do well. I want to keep a record of my writing, so I will be adding at least some of my writing pieces to this blog. That will also help me when I have to assemble my portfolio at the end of the class.
Writing Into The Day (a ritual free-write at the beginning of each class) 6/9:
"Love in the Classroom" by Al Zolynas
"A sudden, sweet, almost painful love for my students." Last Monday I sat down at my desk when the bell for first period rang. I don't really know why; I didn't have any students. All I taught this semester was SciFi and Fantasy Lit, a senior English class. All 137 of the students I had started the semester with were gone. Most had graduated the morning before, not even 24 hours before. A few had given up at some point in the semester, either in my class or another, and did not graduate--I don't know if I'll see them in the fall when they try again, or if they'll finish during summer school, or if they'll simply move on. A couple dropped out during the semester. I wonder, do my students all know how much I, how much we, care and how much we love them? Do they know how oddly lonely I was, sitting at my desk in an empty room on Monday? Do they know? And will they remember?
10 minute Writing Marathon 6/9: Rocket Wraps
So, here we are, full of burritos and chips. Looking around the room, I notice all different kinds of people: young people, businessmen, families, workers. But, at closer inspection, are they really different? All seem well-dressed, well-behaved Caucasians. Place-based learning. Place-based writing. What can I learn about Billings from this place? What can I learn about writing in this place? What makes this place special? I must begin with what I see--it reminds me of that line from Silence of the Lambs: "How do we begin to covet?" "We covet what we see every day." I see people like these every day at school, on my street, in my mirror. What makes them Billings? I seek the identity of this place. So many other places I've lived have had strong personalities, shouted them, rubbed your face in them. What do I find here? A small town? A city? A cow town? A place of culture? Of cultures? Reveal yourself to me, Billings. Show your cards. What have you got? Let's see your hand.
15 minute Writing Marathon 6/9: Outside Trailhead (across from the Rex)
I am woefully ignorant about Billings for someone who has lived here almost five years. Sitting across from The Rex (never eaten there) and the Rainbow Bar (know nothing about it), sitting in front of the Trailhead (don't know what kind of brewery or distillery it might be, but a beer would be nice on this warm summer day). This is supposed to be a sketchier part of downtown where homeless people wander, I think. I don't see anyone wandering now. But it makes me feel guilty, and a little ashamed. Why don't I know more about Billings? I guess I've never made much of an effort to get out and meet people. I don't know why. I met a few teachers when I subbed the first year we were here who seemed friendly, but I felt like an outsider because I was just a sub. Then I spent a lonely summer, pregnant and tired, and only subbed a few times that fall. I didn't meet anyone. Once I had Brendan, our first child, I was home with him and no one else. I loved bonding with the little guy, but I missed my friends from Memphis, going kayaking every weekend or so, and just getting out. When I was an LTA that spring at Skyview, I didn't get out of my classroom much to meet people because I had to pump (I don't miss those days). Then home in the evenings and back to the baby and Ross. Didn't get a sitter to go out, just stayed in. We went out a few times as a family to eat, but mostly we just stayed home. That summer, I had Brendan in swimming lessons (mom and tot); I could have befriended a fellow parent, perhaps, but they all seemed so much younger than me. I guess that's the downside to having your first child at age 36. I just stayed home with Brendan, otherwise. Then that fall I started as an LTA for the full year. Why didn't I go out with any of my fellow teachers? I think I still felt like an outsider. By that time, I was pregnant again. Hard to go clubbing or bar-hopping when you are pregnant and have a 1-year-old at home, I guess. But I'm ashamed at not making more of an effort.
5 minute Writing Marathon 6/9: On the steps of the Western Heritage Museum
Hey there, horse (haha, see what I did there?). I try to make sense of your design: yellow body, blue head, lavender nose, elephant toes? I catch glimpses of familiarity--a tipi, a crow, a lizard. But is that...seaweed growing up your legs? A poisonous lionfish on your side? Do you have, uh, crabs? I'm confused. I'm sure there's a story to you, some magic lines that will weave your images together. But the museum is closed on Mondays, so your story goes unheard. I hope it's a good one. To my untrained eye, it looks like Sergeant Pepper exploded all over you. (Note to self: museums are apparently closed on Mondays in Billings.)
20 Minute Writing Marathon 6/9: the lobby of the Northern Hotel
Sitting in a fancy cowhide (I think) chair in the lovely lobby of the Northern. It's not exactly quiet, as I can hear plenty of talking by the employees and the groovy soft jazz over the speakers, but it does not seem to be very "busy". I've heard that the Northern is struggling, having put a lot of money into the renovation without much return so far. It's very pretty--large railroad ties framing a gas fireplace, beautiful prints recessed into the walls, have bronze pieces by Remington on the table. Beautiful, and "western" in its own way. But I don't know if this is Billings either.--I'm having trouble writing; I'm not comfy in this chair. There's nowhere to put my notebook to write comfortably. It's like Will Smith in Men In Black when he's trying to take the aptitude test...But back to Billings. As we've walked the streets downtown, I've enjoyed the green leaves on the trees, the beautiful flowers in the pots outside businesses, the smiles of people walking around town, either with purpose or without. Perhaps this IS Billings after all, fine dining, antique shops, and galleries rubbing elbows with bars, dives, and shelters. I need to see more. There is personality here. I can feel it. I'm looking forward to this place-based learning more than ever. I've already seen more of Billings than I had before, even though all the museums we've tried to visit have been closed. I wonder what other places we'll visit? I know we're going to Pryor. I've only been there once, and we spent most of our time in the play area rather than the museum. Little kids are just not helpers when it comes to cultural activities. At least, mine aren't.--I must admit, this write is more difficult. I want to stop, to rest my hand, doing so much writing. My thoughts become scattered, disconnected, fragmented. Variations on a theme, within a theme. And I'm listening to the conversation of the hotel employees and being distracted by it. No wonder some of my students SNARL at their classmates who try to talk, even whisper, during writing assignments. I must be better about shushing them.
15 Minute Writing Marathon 6/9: Yellowstone County Veterans Memorial
Trees, grass, breeze,
The rattle of the cables on the flagpole
Names etched in somber stone
Sacrifice and stillness.
Purple hearts and purple flowers
Timeless memory from otherwise forgotten past
Paying homage to the call of duty
Calling out the names in the muteness, their permanence,
These lists of those who gave some or all.
The sentinel of a bell that does not ring
Watching the names of the dead.
Homeless men lying in the shade, or where shade was before
Are they forgotten veterans of a forgotten war?
Do they come here to remember or forget?
Perhaps here to pay respect to the fallen, even as they are falling themselves.
I want to run my hands down the lists of names
Feel their depth, their void
Although they are not mine.
Part of me wonders if there are more, from recent wars, that have not yet been honored.
Part of me is horrified that there might be more.
A state with a relatively small population--
How many names?
Too many. More than I am willing to count.
Someone has come to help one of the homeless men.
She is talking to him, rubbing his shoulders.
For a moment I am panicked--have I watched while someone has struggled to live?
He pops up and walks easily to another spot, then lies down again briefly.
While he may not be struggling to live, he surely is struggling with life.
And I am ashamed to document his shame.
Will he someday have his name carved in a stone slab somewhere?
I do not know.
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