(This is a sample post for the CNHS class of 2013.)
One of the sample student memoirs that caught my attention is entitled "Ten Thousand Steps," written by Emily W, age 16. (Her memoir can be found at http://teacher.scholastic.com/writeit/readpoem.asp?id=635&genre=Memoir&Page=5&sortBy=).
The imagery that she uses in this memoir takes my breath away. I can tell that she didn't stick in fancy phrases just to fill the space, but rather she chose images that fit her beloved grandfather. For example, she describes his wrinkles as, "Deep creases [that] enwrap his eyes, like crevasses filled with unknown secrets." Not only can I easily picture those deep creases, but I also want to know more about her grandfather's secrets. And she does tell!
I also love this memoir because she writes about her grandfather with such dignity and respect. Although she does not write about a personal challenge (as my eleventh graders do), she tells about a time in her life that touched her deeply -- and I can tell from the forshadowing in the conclusion that her personal challenge is coming soon.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Good Day
Today, my journalism students established writing teams, set short term and long term project goals, and made press passes.
F-bombs were minimal. So was yelling and desk banging.
I only saw one item go air born (it was a highlighter, which I think is a huge improvement over pushpins or the stapler).
I didn't hear a single drug reference. Not one.
Best of all, when my kids left for the day, I did not cry. Instead I did a couple of air fist-pumps and then went air born myself.
Good day.
F-bombs were minimal. So was yelling and desk banging.
I only saw one item go air born (it was a highlighter, which I think is a huge improvement over pushpins or the stapler).
I didn't hear a single drug reference. Not one.
Best of all, when my kids left for the day, I did not cry. Instead I did a couple of air fist-pumps and then went air born myself.
Good day.
Mosaic
Matt and I have been going to a church called Mosaic. We asked about a dozen people back home and here in L.A. for a church recommendation, and the only answer we got was "Mosaic." Although I usually dismiss all things popular (I swear, I held out for as long as possible on choosing Pasadena for our relocation city, reasoning that if everyone liked it, it must be terrible -- I acknowledge this makes absolutely no sense), but when it comes to God, I'm not an idiot. Unanimous church recommendations seemed like a pretty easy call.
I spent the first several weeks picking apart the sermons, comparing them to Isaac's, and finding them wanting. Matt spent the first few weeks picking apart the band, comparing it to Summit's, and finding it wanting. He knew I wasn't loving the church, and he'd glance over at me during sermons with a worried look on his face. And as we walked into the sanctuary each week, I'd bet him we'd know at least one song (a bet I lost more often than not).
About three weeks ago, we decided we needed to hit the reset button. So, we picked up our self-pity, stuck it in our backpack, and headed to the Mosaic campus in Hollywood. The first trip did not bode well (refer to "Whiny Darth" blog post). The second was worse; three women and a man got into a screaming and slapping match on the train that was scary enough, we moved to another car, but alas, so did the screaming slappers. Plus, all in, the round-trip church experience takes four hours. FOUR HOURS.
But we think we've arrived on Planet It's Worth It. First, the band. Although the electric guitarists are so intense my eyelids vibrate, their talent is unrivaled. I am mesmerized just watching them (which I think is a fine way to worship). This Sunday, one of them actually slid a violin bow back and forth across the guitar strings, creating a sound that just about shattered my soul.
The lead singer looks a lot like one of my all-time favorite students ("you're awesome, Joshy Singer!"), so I automatically love him. Plus, he's fantastic. Matt says the band sounds like Pink Floyd. I say U-2. Come visit us and vote!
Our senior pastor, Erwin MacManus, brings his A-game to Hollywood. A few of his recent breath-stoppers:
Perhaps this is goofy, but the final "we've arrived" sense came when we first walked into Mosaic Hollywood. It's so like The Plaza on Bumby (minus the stale popcorn aroma), that we both said, right at the same moment, "Ohhhh ...."
Last week, I did not miss Isaac's sermon or the worship band at the Plaza. Instead, I found myself wondering if we're home.
I spent the first several weeks picking apart the sermons, comparing them to Isaac's, and finding them wanting. Matt spent the first few weeks picking apart the band, comparing it to Summit's, and finding it wanting. He knew I wasn't loving the church, and he'd glance over at me during sermons with a worried look on his face. And as we walked into the sanctuary each week, I'd bet him we'd know at least one song (a bet I lost more often than not).
About three weeks ago, we decided we needed to hit the reset button. So, we picked up our self-pity, stuck it in our backpack, and headed to the Mosaic campus in Hollywood. The first trip did not bode well (refer to "Whiny Darth" blog post). The second was worse; three women and a man got into a screaming and slapping match on the train that was scary enough, we moved to another car, but alas, so did the screaming slappers. Plus, all in, the round-trip church experience takes four hours. FOUR HOURS.
But we think we've arrived on Planet It's Worth It. First, the band. Although the electric guitarists are so intense my eyelids vibrate, their talent is unrivaled. I am mesmerized just watching them (which I think is a fine way to worship). This Sunday, one of them actually slid a violin bow back and forth across the guitar strings, creating a sound that just about shattered my soul.
The lead singer looks a lot like one of my all-time favorite students ("you're awesome, Joshy Singer!"), so I automatically love him. Plus, he's fantastic. Matt says the band sounds like Pink Floyd. I say U-2. Come visit us and vote!
Our senior pastor, Erwin MacManus, brings his A-game to Hollywood. A few of his recent breath-stoppers:
- Relationships build bridges that ideas cannot.
- In matters of love, you have to go yourself.
- One of the most damaging aspects of American society is religion.
- We are designed to care deeply.
Perhaps this is goofy, but the final "we've arrived" sense came when we first walked into Mosaic Hollywood. It's so like The Plaza on Bumby (minus the stale popcorn aroma), that we both said, right at the same moment, "Ohhhh ...."
Last week, I did not miss Isaac's sermon or the worship band at the Plaza. Instead, I found myself wondering if we're home.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Our 40th President
Yesterday, Matt and I drove to Simi Valley to visit the Ronald Reagan Presidential Library and Museum. First, two words about thriftiness. We're thrifty! We packed our lunch, coasted on the downhills, used his employee discount, and flashed my AAA membership. Whole day cost us $10. No lie. (Well, not counting the trip to Office Depot afterwards to stock up on supplies for my journalism students. That part was less thrifty.)
The museum is excellent. We set aside the politics and just soaked in the beauty of the setting, the wonder of the memorabilia, and most of all, the magnitude of a life well lived.
My take-away: The best years of our lives are yet ahead of us.
Matt's take-away: Say what you want about Ronald Reagan, but two things are inarguable. The man loved America. And the man loved his wife.
Then he said some other stuff that was lovely and touching ... and that made me hope this honeymoon bubble we're floating in lasts forever.
The museum is excellent. We set aside the politics and just soaked in the beauty of the setting, the wonder of the memorabilia, and most of all, the magnitude of a life well lived.
My take-away: The best years of our lives are yet ahead of us.
Matt's take-away: Say what you want about Ronald Reagan, but two things are inarguable. The man loved America. And the man loved his wife.
Then he said some other stuff that was lovely and touching ... and that made me hope this honeymoon bubble we're floating in lasts forever.
Gangsta Teacha
On Thursday, I had this conversation with two of my students:
Student 1: I like you, Miss. You're G.
Me: G?
Student 2: You know, the sixth letter of the alphabet?
Me: Umm, the sixth letter of the alphabet is F.
Student 1: I like you, Miss. You're G.
Me: G?
Student 2: You know, the sixth letter of the alphabet?
Me: Umm, the sixth letter of the alphabet is F.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Feathers, feathers everwhere
One of the things that continues to surprise me about this city is the abundance of bird feathers. Yep, you read that right: bird feathers. They are everywhere.
You'd think, yes, perhaps in a popular migration destination, like some western Canadian lake that fat, noisy geese call home, or maybe at a pristine beach on the west coast of Florida where you have to carefully guard your Cheez-Its from seagull theft (I swear, they really do say, "Mine! Mine! Mine!"). I have not seen the likes of bird feathers anywhere else in the world such as right here in downtown Los Angeles. There are a bajillion bird feathers.
I have a theory. It is this: pigeons love Carl, Jr.'s and del Taco. And since Los Angeles must surely be the highest density in the world of those fine food establishments, word is out among earth's pigeon populations: "Hey, guys, ya gotta move to L.A.! You won't believe the amazing food!"
Where there are pigeon feathers, there is also pigeon you-know-what. During one pretty scary bike ride, Matt and I hopped off our bikes to walk them through a heavily-trafficked tunnel. We sloshed through such thick pigeon guano, I seriously considering throwing away our shoes when we got home.
Echoes of Julie Andrews singing, "Feed the birds, tuppence a bag" do not at all romantize these chubby gluttons. In the aviary world, I think pigeons would ride the short bus. Which is also why, I suppose, we see a lot of pigeon carcasses (but not for long, as Los Angeles is also home to a significant coyote population -- but that's another blog).
You'd think, yes, perhaps in a popular migration destination, like some western Canadian lake that fat, noisy geese call home, or maybe at a pristine beach on the west coast of Florida where you have to carefully guard your Cheez-Its from seagull theft (I swear, they really do say, "Mine! Mine! Mine!"). I have not seen the likes of bird feathers anywhere else in the world such as right here in downtown Los Angeles. There are a bajillion bird feathers.
I have a theory. It is this: pigeons love Carl, Jr.'s and del Taco. And since Los Angeles must surely be the highest density in the world of those fine food establishments, word is out among earth's pigeon populations: "Hey, guys, ya gotta move to L.A.! You won't believe the amazing food!"
Where there are pigeon feathers, there is also pigeon you-know-what. During one pretty scary bike ride, Matt and I hopped off our bikes to walk them through a heavily-trafficked tunnel. We sloshed through such thick pigeon guano, I seriously considering throwing away our shoes when we got home.
Echoes of Julie Andrews singing, "Feed the birds, tuppence a bag" do not at all romantize these chubby gluttons. In the aviary world, I think pigeons would ride the short bus. Which is also why, I suppose, we see a lot of pigeon carcasses (but not for long, as Los Angeles is also home to a significant coyote population -- but that's another blog).
Sunday, September 11, 2011
I Am From
I teach a class called iConnect. Twenty girls and I tackled topics such as sex, substance abuse, nutrition, social issues, relationships -- you name it, it's all fair game.
During the first week of school, my girls wrote "I Am From ..." poems. Here are some excerpts that touched me:
---
From the story of how my mom came to the U.S.
and how she suffered here to get where she is now
---
I am from graffiti on the corner of
my street, spray can, art of
West Hollywood.
I am from palm trees and brushes,
blowing fresh air to refresh me
from the sun.
---
The handsome, sweet uncle who chose
my name while carrying me with a big
smile on his face at the hospital.
---
I am from cooking and going out
From cleaning my room and doing
good at school
I'm from going to church every
Sunday
---
I'm from East Los Angeles, Mexico and Spain,
Enchiladas, tamales, from the crazy uncle who made bad
choices and got into trouble. The grandpa who would tell stories
to his grandchildren. The boxes with photo memories and our hearts,
most important to not forget the ones we love.
---
The dad I haven't seen in years
pictures I have saved from the good memories left of him
Keeping them in a box where only I see them
to remind me he was once there for me.
---
I'm from the quiet mornings and lonely games.
From "Brush your hair" and "Wash your face"
I'm from churchless Sundays, and prayers at night
I'm from the country of cultures.
Sunday night carne asada, famous wings on Melrose
From the home where a father carried a
Sick newborn, and handled soiled diapers
The frame of a fragile body battling cancer
The box in a storage closet.
The memories that can never be relived.
---
I'm from posole
and tajadas here and there
from mama lupe and papa
ramon I'm from Quinceneras
and parties every weekend
I'm from Catholics and
Christian prayers.
I'm from days of hunger and
no where to sleep, where all
my both parents had was
tortillas and avacate from
the loud loving family
strong as a rock and
united forever.
During the first week of school, my girls wrote "I Am From ..." poems. Here are some excerpts that touched me:
---
From the story of how my mom came to the U.S.
and how she suffered here to get where she is now
---
I am from graffiti on the corner of
my street, spray can, art of
West Hollywood.
I am from palm trees and brushes,
blowing fresh air to refresh me
from the sun.
---
The handsome, sweet uncle who chose
my name while carrying me with a big
smile on his face at the hospital.
---
I am from cooking and going out
From cleaning my room and doing
good at school
I'm from going to church every
Sunday
---
I'm from East Los Angeles, Mexico and Spain,
Enchiladas, tamales, from the crazy uncle who made bad
choices and got into trouble. The grandpa who would tell stories
to his grandchildren. The boxes with photo memories and our hearts,
most important to not forget the ones we love.
---
The dad I haven't seen in years
pictures I have saved from the good memories left of him
Keeping them in a box where only I see them
to remind me he was once there for me.
---
I'm from the quiet mornings and lonely games.
From "Brush your hair" and "Wash your face"
I'm from churchless Sundays, and prayers at night
I'm from the country of cultures.
Sunday night carne asada, famous wings on Melrose
From the home where a father carried a
Sick newborn, and handled soiled diapers
The frame of a fragile body battling cancer
The box in a storage closet.
The memories that can never be relived.
---
I'm from posole
and tajadas here and there
from mama lupe and papa
ramon I'm from Quinceneras
and parties every weekend
I'm from Catholics and
Christian prayers.
I'm from days of hunger and
no where to sleep, where all
my both parents had was
tortillas and avacate from
the loud loving family
strong as a rock and
united forever.
The Intersection
Every morning, rain or shine (hah! it hasn't rained in this desert even once since we moved here), Matt and I sit on our itsy-bitsy patio. He reads the paper. I move as the mood strikes: read a devotional, stalk my friends on Facebook, grade papers, text with Juan, fold laundry, update my calendar, plan lessons, clip coupons, catch up on email ...
Meanwhile, Matt reads the paper. Every morning, rain or shine. And there are two gifts I receive from his consistency: my busy, what-should-I-do-next self calms down. There's a scene in The Last Samurai in which the main actor dude (the tall Asian guy) gazes at a cherry tree and says, "Some men spend their whole lives in search of the perfect cherry blossom." He pauses for a moment and then turns his gaze to Tom Cruise, and says, "Such a life would not be a waste."
That's the sensation I get when I watch Matt read the paper. Suddenly, nothing is as important as sitting very still.
The other super cool thing about Matt's daily dive into the papers is that he discovers unexpectedly sweet things to do. Yesterday was such a day. We were within minutes of walking to our Tai Chi lesson when he pointed to a little article and said, "We should go see that." What 'that' turned out to be was an intricate sand painting on display at the same museum where we take our lessons. A handful of Tibetan monks spent the last several days painstakingly creating what looks like a huge, beaded medallion out of brightly-colored, fine sand. Today, as soon as they are finished, they will sweep their art away. And although the action of sweeping it away is a comment on the Buddhist belief in the transience of beauty, I prefer to think the beauty is swept out into the universe where it will join other moments of beauty. (I know -- the sand will actually end up in a Hefty bag in a dumpster behind the Asian Pacific Museum, but let me have the dream.)
So after Tai Chi, we watched the monks don their prayer robes and then listened to them pray and chant for over 30 minutes to prepare themselves for the offering of their work. (What might our world look like if we all started our day in such a way as this?) And then, they "painted" by pouring minute amounts of sand into long, gold tubes and then breathing each particle into place.
As we walked back to our apartment, we ran into a friend from church, which was a huge gift. This was the first time we've run into anyone we know in this big, noisy city. The meeting occurred, of course, at a big, noisy intersection ... but we were so grateful for the unexpectedness of it. And for the gift of the Tibetan monks and their art.
I like to think this is the beauty of life -- spending day after day patiently engaging in each and every moment. Then one day, in the midst of it all, there it is:
The perfect cherry blossom.
Meanwhile, Matt reads the paper. Every morning, rain or shine. And there are two gifts I receive from his consistency: my busy, what-should-I-do-next self calms down. There's a scene in The Last Samurai in which the main actor dude (the tall Asian guy) gazes at a cherry tree and says, "Some men spend their whole lives in search of the perfect cherry blossom." He pauses for a moment and then turns his gaze to Tom Cruise, and says, "Such a life would not be a waste."
That's the sensation I get when I watch Matt read the paper. Suddenly, nothing is as important as sitting very still.
The other super cool thing about Matt's daily dive into the papers is that he discovers unexpectedly sweet things to do. Yesterday was such a day. We were within minutes of walking to our Tai Chi lesson when he pointed to a little article and said, "We should go see that." What 'that' turned out to be was an intricate sand painting on display at the same museum where we take our lessons. A handful of Tibetan monks spent the last several days painstakingly creating what looks like a huge, beaded medallion out of brightly-colored, fine sand. Today, as soon as they are finished, they will sweep their art away. And although the action of sweeping it away is a comment on the Buddhist belief in the transience of beauty, I prefer to think the beauty is swept out into the universe where it will join other moments of beauty. (I know -- the sand will actually end up in a Hefty bag in a dumpster behind the Asian Pacific Museum, but let me have the dream.)
So after Tai Chi, we watched the monks don their prayer robes and then listened to them pray and chant for over 30 minutes to prepare themselves for the offering of their work. (What might our world look like if we all started our day in such a way as this?) And then, they "painted" by pouring minute amounts of sand into long, gold tubes and then breathing each particle into place.
As we walked back to our apartment, we ran into a friend from church, which was a huge gift. This was the first time we've run into anyone we know in this big, noisy city. The meeting occurred, of course, at a big, noisy intersection ... but we were so grateful for the unexpectedness of it. And for the gift of the Tibetan monks and their art.
I like to think this is the beauty of life -- spending day after day patiently engaging in each and every moment. Then one day, in the midst of it all, there it is:
The perfect cherry blossom.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Whiny Darth?
Matt and I have been going to a church called Mosaic. There are several campuses, and we've been hitting up the one in Pasadena because, well, that makes sense being that we live in Pasadena and all. This past Sunday, though, we decided to visit the campus in Hollywood. Off we went -- Metro Gold to Union Station, Metro Red to somewhere in North Hollywood.
As it happened, our stop dumped us right in the heart of the most touristy section of Hollywood. We cruised up the escalator and landed smack in the middle of a crowd of thousands of people taking pictures of their feet (you know -- the Hollywood stars) right in front of Grauman's Chinese Theater.
My favorite part was this ... as we headed west toward church, we found ourselves following Darth Vadar and Elmo. That was enough all by itself to get me giggling, but, oh no, the best was yet to come. Here's the conversation between them:
Darth: Dammit (insert more colorful explicative), I just spent 10 friggin' (insert more colorful explicative) minutes with that family, posing with every single one of them, and what do I get?
Elmo: Rrrr?
Darth: A dollar! One friggin' (insert more colorful explicative) dollar!
Elmo: (nodding sympathetically)
Darth: And the old man didn't even act straight up about it! Oh, no, he tried to be all smooth and fold it, so I couldn't see it was just a lousy, friggin' (you know what to do) dollar.
Elmo: Brrrr ...
--
What?! Really, Lord Vadar?! Shouldn't you just lift the guy up by his wind pipe and cut off his airways until he gives you his entire wallet and thanks you for not annihilating him? Oh, Darth, you may be insidious, you may be cunning, you may be heartless ... but you may not be whiny.
Proof positive that not every aspiring actor in Hollywood is destined for greatness. If we see Darth again on Sunday, I think I may just invite him to church. But I'll keep a close eye on him when they pass the basket.
As it happened, our stop dumped us right in the heart of the most touristy section of Hollywood. We cruised up the escalator and landed smack in the middle of a crowd of thousands of people taking pictures of their feet (you know -- the Hollywood stars) right in front of Grauman's Chinese Theater.
My favorite part was this ... as we headed west toward church, we found ourselves following Darth Vadar and Elmo. That was enough all by itself to get me giggling, but, oh no, the best was yet to come. Here's the conversation between them:
Darth: Dammit (insert more colorful explicative), I just spent 10 friggin' (insert more colorful explicative) minutes with that family, posing with every single one of them, and what do I get?
Elmo: Rrrr?
Darth: A dollar! One friggin' (insert more colorful explicative) dollar!
Elmo: (nodding sympathetically)
Darth: And the old man didn't even act straight up about it! Oh, no, he tried to be all smooth and fold it, so I couldn't see it was just a lousy, friggin' (you know what to do) dollar.
Elmo: Brrrr ...
--
What?! Really, Lord Vadar?! Shouldn't you just lift the guy up by his wind pipe and cut off his airways until he gives you his entire wallet and thanks you for not annihilating him? Oh, Darth, you may be insidious, you may be cunning, you may be heartless ... but you may not be whiny.
Proof positive that not every aspiring actor in Hollywood is destined for greatness. If we see Darth again on Sunday, I think I may just invite him to church. But I'll keep a close eye on him when they pass the basket.
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