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As providence would have it, I visit my daughter’s classroom during what amounts to third grade composition. “Come on in,” the teacher beckons me. “We’ll be writing a paragraph—but you won’t see much teaching,” she admits.
My daughter sits in the back row, between two boys, at the heavy desks of green metal construction, a thick particle-board top and orangeish—How do you spell “orange-ish” and why isn’t it a word?—surface. These are still the desks of the military-industrial machine, I can’t help but think, blunt, heavy, ugly and barely functional. I can scarcely remember seeing an uglier desk. My daughter’s desk happens to have her two cubbies on the right side, one on top where I see she’s got her pencil box neatly stashed and the larger one below where she’s got her books neatly ordered. Unfortunately, the desk of the boy to my daughter’s left is positioned exactly the opposite, with the cubbies on the left, meaning they are sitting directly next to each other, but really directly on top of each other, a total invasion of space. So much for a room—or even a space—of one’s own for my aspiring writer.
The teacher proceeds to explain the assignment: the students are to write a paragraph for the local newspaper that has this first line: “During the Christmas holidays, I like to . . .” The teacher writes the sentence on the board in immaculate letters. This first line will help them get going, the teacher explains, and they are to fill in half a page with whatever they would like.
“What do they mean by ‘holidays,’” one student asks, “Christmas and New Year’s?”
“Well, I might substitute ‘vacation’ for ‘holidays’” answers the teacher, suggesting they think both about the days themselves and the break from school in between.
“Make sure to write things that are interesting,” she encourages them. Do they open presents at grandma’s house? Put that in. Do they drink eggnog by an open fire—how many of them have had egg nog? A half dozen hands go up in the air; my daughter raises her hand and looks at me questioningly. There’s clearly some prestige in saying you’ve had eggnog and liked it. “We had that eggnog shake from McDonald’s,” I whisper, “I’m sure that counts.”
Then we’re back to the paragraph. “Make sure not to start each sentence the same way,” the teacher says, exemplifying with a series of rapid-fire sentences beginning with “and” that are the model of monotony. “Would that sound very interesting?” she asks. A scattering of “no’s” and head shakes are her answer. “And make sure to write just about Christmas,” she continues. “It wouldn’t make sense to say, ‘and I like turkey for Thanksgiving,’ would it?” Again, head shakes.
“When you’re finished, bring them to me and I’ll read over them to see about mistakes,” the teacher says, “because the newspaper will print them just as they are. Grandpas and grandmas like to see mistakes when they print them—they think they’re cute—but how do you feel about them?”
“Embarrassed,” someone says. Yes, this is third grade.
Finally, they’re off to writing, the teacher trouble shooting. One student asks about the spelling of a word, another is told to use a period; another girl, just two desks down from my daughter asks a question that gets the reply, “It doesn’t matter, just write.” I sneak a look at the girl’s paper. After about five minutes or so she hasn’t written anything yet. The boy next to my daughter is also stuck on zero.
My daughter starts with something about presents. Then she writes another generic memory about the Christmas tree. I know I shouldn’t taint the waters but I can’t resist. She needs her memory jarred. “What do we do Christmas Eve, Sommer?” I ask her. Ah, a question—that’s not forcing her hand. It’s leading her. The question references our family’s Christmas Eve practice of sleeping by the Christmas tree. It’s about the most distinctive thing we do. Surely, she would have remembered it on her own anyway, right? Then again, considering the time constraints—the teacher has apologized profusely for forgetting to do this assignment earlier, it’s due today—maybe not.
She writes quite a long sentence at my suggestion and then she stops again. A few students get up and approach the teacher’s desk to have their paragraphs proofread. Others still have nothing written.
“Where did we spend Christmas last year, Sommer?” I ask, again prompting here irresistibly. “Oh, Denmark.” She writes. “How do you spell that?”
“Do you remember New Year’s?” I can’t stop myself. In Copenhagen at midnight on New Year’s Eve, there are no state-sponsored fireworks. Rather, everyone—and I literally mean everyone in a city of millions—buys fireworks and shoots them off at any street corner or park they can find. And I’m not just talking bottle rockets and sparklers. I mean the really big showery flowery ones, the glittery rainy ones, and the shock-and-awe sonic boom ones. Surely, this will be memorable to Sommer—and make for memorable writing. And now I’ve tainted the piece irreparably. It’s probably a little show-offy, I think to myself: “When I was in Denmark . . .”
So I decide I better leave before I jerk the pencil from my daughter’s hand and write it the way I want it. It’s been quite a lesson. I’ve seen students with trouble getting started, students staring in horror at a blank page despite having been given a first line, students concerned about their audience. I’ve seen students challenged to stay focused, students prompted to use memorable details, students temporarily road blocked by spelling and punctuation. I’ve seen students confronted with proofreading and deadlines and the assembly line process of writing with others on top of them.
Still, I’ve witnessed the act of creation. My daughter typically has a sharp memory, coming up with things from the past that I’m surprised she remembers. Put on the spot, however, the past becomes an indistinct blob for us all. Writing cultivates the ground of the memory, brings things to mind that might otherwise slip away, crystallizes them and organizes them and concretizes them in a way that makes meaning of them. As I look around the room, these students are making the Christmas traditions of their childhoods, shaping lumps of indistinct memories into days and moments that they decide stick out, that they decide are meaningful for some interior quality inherent to the experience itself and now exposed by the power of the third grade mind.
So I go home to grade papers from college writers who face some of the same problems as third grade writers: getting started, writing varied sentences, staying focused, using memorable detail. And then I’ll sit down to compose this essay, struggling with the same things—should I really leave “orangish” in? How should I spell it?
I’m really no smarter than a third grader.
But I’ll jar my memory, spur my imagination, publish it on the blog for a couple of readers max, and it will be worth it.
My daughter sits in the back row, between two boys, at the heavy desks of green metal construction, a thick particle-board top and orangeish—How do you spell “orange-ish” and why isn’t it a word?—surface. These are still the desks of the military-industrial machine, I can’t help but think, blunt, heavy, ugly and barely functional. I can scarcely remember seeing an uglier desk. My daughter’s desk happens to have her two cubbies on the right side, one on top where I see she’s got her pencil box neatly stashed and the larger one below where she’s got her books neatly ordered. Unfortunately, the desk of the boy to my daughter’s left is positioned exactly the opposite, with the cubbies on the left, meaning they are sitting directly next to each other, but really directly on top of each other, a total invasion of space. So much for a room—or even a space—of one’s own for my aspiring writer.
The teacher proceeds to explain the assignment: the students are to write a paragraph for the local newspaper that has this first line: “During the Christmas holidays, I like to . . .” The teacher writes the sentence on the board in immaculate letters. This first line will help them get going, the teacher explains, and they are to fill in half a page with whatever they would like.
“What do they mean by ‘holidays,’” one student asks, “Christmas and New Year’s?”
“Well, I might substitute ‘vacation’ for ‘holidays’” answers the teacher, suggesting they think both about the days themselves and the break from school in between.
“Make sure to write things that are interesting,” she encourages them. Do they open presents at grandma’s house? Put that in. Do they drink eggnog by an open fire—how many of them have had egg nog? A half dozen hands go up in the air; my daughter raises her hand and looks at me questioningly. There’s clearly some prestige in saying you’ve had eggnog and liked it. “We had that eggnog shake from McDonald’s,” I whisper, “I’m sure that counts.”
Then we’re back to the paragraph. “Make sure not to start each sentence the same way,” the teacher says, exemplifying with a series of rapid-fire sentences beginning with “and” that are the model of monotony. “Would that sound very interesting?” she asks. A scattering of “no’s” and head shakes are her answer. “And make sure to write just about Christmas,” she continues. “It wouldn’t make sense to say, ‘and I like turkey for Thanksgiving,’ would it?” Again, head shakes.
“When you’re finished, bring them to me and I’ll read over them to see about mistakes,” the teacher says, “because the newspaper will print them just as they are. Grandpas and grandmas like to see mistakes when they print them—they think they’re cute—but how do you feel about them?”
“Embarrassed,” someone says. Yes, this is third grade.
Finally, they’re off to writing, the teacher trouble shooting. One student asks about the spelling of a word, another is told to use a period; another girl, just two desks down from my daughter asks a question that gets the reply, “It doesn’t matter, just write.” I sneak a look at the girl’s paper. After about five minutes or so she hasn’t written anything yet. The boy next to my daughter is also stuck on zero.
My daughter starts with something about presents. Then she writes another generic memory about the Christmas tree. I know I shouldn’t taint the waters but I can’t resist. She needs her memory jarred. “What do we do Christmas Eve, Sommer?” I ask her. Ah, a question—that’s not forcing her hand. It’s leading her. The question references our family’s Christmas Eve practice of sleeping by the Christmas tree. It’s about the most distinctive thing we do. Surely, she would have remembered it on her own anyway, right? Then again, considering the time constraints—the teacher has apologized profusely for forgetting to do this assignment earlier, it’s due today—maybe not.
She writes quite a long sentence at my suggestion and then she stops again. A few students get up and approach the teacher’s desk to have their paragraphs proofread. Others still have nothing written.
“Where did we spend Christmas last year, Sommer?” I ask, again prompting here irresistibly. “Oh, Denmark.” She writes. “How do you spell that?”
“Do you remember New Year’s?” I can’t stop myself. In Copenhagen at midnight on New Year’s Eve, there are no state-sponsored fireworks. Rather, everyone—and I literally mean everyone in a city of millions—buys fireworks and shoots them off at any street corner or park they can find. And I’m not just talking bottle rockets and sparklers. I mean the really big showery flowery ones, the glittery rainy ones, and the shock-and-awe sonic boom ones. Surely, this will be memorable to Sommer—and make for memorable writing. And now I’ve tainted the piece irreparably. It’s probably a little show-offy, I think to myself: “When I was in Denmark . . .”
So I decide I better leave before I jerk the pencil from my daughter’s hand and write it the way I want it. It’s been quite a lesson. I’ve seen students with trouble getting started, students staring in horror at a blank page despite having been given a first line, students concerned about their audience. I’ve seen students challenged to stay focused, students prompted to use memorable details, students temporarily road blocked by spelling and punctuation. I’ve seen students confronted with proofreading and deadlines and the assembly line process of writing with others on top of them.
Still, I’ve witnessed the act of creation. My daughter typically has a sharp memory, coming up with things from the past that I’m surprised she remembers. Put on the spot, however, the past becomes an indistinct blob for us all. Writing cultivates the ground of the memory, brings things to mind that might otherwise slip away, crystallizes them and organizes them and concretizes them in a way that makes meaning of them. As I look around the room, these students are making the Christmas traditions of their childhoods, shaping lumps of indistinct memories into days and moments that they decide stick out, that they decide are meaningful for some interior quality inherent to the experience itself and now exposed by the power of the third grade mind.
So I go home to grade papers from college writers who face some of the same problems as third grade writers: getting started, writing varied sentences, staying focused, using memorable detail. And then I’ll sit down to compose this essay, struggling with the same things—should I really leave “orangish” in? How should I spell it?
I’m really no smarter than a third grader.
But I’ll jar my memory, spur my imagination, publish it on the blog for a couple of readers max, and it will be worth it.
Nice.
ReplyDeleteDavid Z.