The OWP offers the opportunity for teachers reflecting on their practice and wish to publish their classroom research a safe and comfortable response group that meets four times through out the course of the year to work on publishing a piece of professional or personal writing.
Those interested in participating should email Peter Shaheen at ps06bps@birmingham.k12.mi.us
Swing Under the Moon
I found an uneven step,
whose awkward lean against her allowed me to reach for her hand
tucking it next to me,
so tiny and soft,
allowing me to slow our pace.
I lingered under the streetlights
to secretly admire her soft silhouette in the pink moonlight.
We didn’t talk much.
What was I to say?
Instead, I gripped her hand a little tighter.Gently, we drifted into the simple park, ducking by the guard stand,
avoiding discovery in his light.
The street lamps buzzed nervously above us, echoing our tone.Once enveloped in evenings’ cool safety,
I stopped, letting her drift in front of me.
She faced me,
carefully, so we didn’t break the soft grasp of our hands.
I led her gently forward
and held her seat steady as a gentleman should,
calming the glide of the chains.I leaned close to her face,
lingering slightly above her shoulder,
allowing the soft curl of her hair to gently tickle my cheek.
“May I push you” I asked, timid and soft,
and we swung together silently
beneath the soft buzz of moonlight.Erin Shaw
Of Outlaws and Outcasts
The human brain, it turns out, loves the element of surprise. Surprise hooks us in as learners; it engages and motivates us. It can be akin to the moment of discovery. I was surprised, delightfully so, by a happy discovery. My discovery? I have a voice. I have been revised and renewed by the Oakland Writing Project. Discovering my voice opened up new territory for me.
Why is voice so significant? Our voice can be a pathway out of shame or despair, or a sanctuary from the world. With voice we share our thoughts, connect with others, challenge beliefs, and stand up for what we know is right. Without it, life can be a bit harder to understand and navigate. Indeed some get lost along the way. Lost to themselves, and outcast by others.
The power of words is undeniable. Despite what the old childhood chant says; words do have the power to hurt. They can turn any one of us into an outcast outlaw. But they can also reclaim lost pieces of our character and heal us. Our writing voice is our heart writing with invisible pen, whispering into our ears. It is our unique perspective on the world around us, on what it most means to be human, what it means to belong or not belong. If we oppress or silence any single voice, we are all the lesser for it.
As I was finding my voice, I was also losing my way. I was blindsided by the fact that I, a male teacher- still a rarity in our elementary schools- had let several boy’s voices go unheard in my own classroom. As Sondheim the musical composer, says: “Into the woods you go again, you have to every now and then?. to get the thing that makes it worth the journeying.” So I got lost willingly, purposefully and with pure exhilaration. I knew that I was not alone on this journey that I could call out to a fellow traveler at any point on the map. So I began to research boys and literacy, and to reflect on the boys who had no voice in my classroom, despite my best efforts to facilitate and nurture private and public selves. We had morning meetings on a regular basis, a complete mini-society, and a great deal of choice in projects and writing pieces. Yet, still they moved about, ghostly specters making no sound; shifting lonely clouds in a sky of wide-open blue. I may have gotten the occasional awkward smile and the perfect attentive profile of the expert listener, but no stories were shared, no songs were sung. Their silence resounds in my head, creating waves of memory that take me back to my time in school.
The research reaching us from a number of countries indicates that I am not alone in this. Documented time and again is the variety of ways that schools devalue, alienate, or overlook our boys. The cost and consequences of so many disaffected, lost voices concerns me greatly. From the differences in how boys and girls learn in current brain research to the actual, real continuum of masculinity that exists, and not the one that a culture decides to honor. From the acting out behaviors we see from many of our boys and the number of boys labeled as learning disabled, to the number of boys who drop out of school, research has begun to unfold a larger map that charts out new territory.
These are voices we are overlooking, or ignoring. These boys need to be met where they are. They need space to grow. They need us to honor who we see and what they need, not what they should be and what we need for them to be. The cumulative research is hard to ignore. It strikes me as ironic that in countless children’s books we see animals and objects with the ability to talk. We can personify anything, give it voice. It is time to give boys theirs.
I am one of those disaffected boys cowering in your classroom. Afraid to admit that I love to read and write and act. Though I have now been revised and renewed because I am finally telling my story, part of me will always be that quiet boy, that perfect student in the corner of your room, that boy who loved reading and writing, but dared not let it be known. I am the one who hated gym class, and who feared walking into the lunchroom because I didn’t know whom to sit with. I am the one who dreaded recess because I did not fit in anywhere.
I am nearly fifty, and only now am I beginning to emerge, to verbalize- to roar when I need too, to cry unashamedly when I am moved or at a loss for words, to whisper sweet-nothings to my intimate, to tell my family how deeply I care for them. I am still here after all these years. Or as Sondheim would say: “I’m almost through my memoirs, and I’m here!” I discovered my voice in the wood, and its echo surprised me.
Boys have gotten all too good at erasing themselves from the picture in our classrooms. We need to find ways to engage them in literacy practices, reassure them when they share their thoughts and feelings. Otherwise, what road lies ahead for those who disconnect, disengage? How do feelings get communicated or conflicts resolved when they become adults? There is already an abundance of misunderstanding and intolerance at play on the streets of our communities.
I will be the voice of the outcast, the voice of the outlaw. My voice is singular, unique, important, and necessary. My voice has weight, depth, tone and color. My words belong to me, come from me, but are now given to you- when I dare to risk. What will you make of them, these my words?
I plead with you: let us wait in silence no more. Dare us to read, to write, to laugh, to cry. Challenge our status as unfit, shameful, when we do not fit your image of masculinity. Confront the forces that work to alienate us, to keep us quiet, be they colleagues, administrators, parents, or fellow students.
We are waiting. Our pencils are always at the ready. We can either use them to talk with you, or use them as weapons. You only have to believe in us.
Rod Moeller
Summer Institute 2004