Why the Writing Project Makes Me Cry

For the record, I am not a big crier. Okay, NPR Story Corps Project stories sometimes get me, for example how a young soldier was disfigured in war and his newlywed bride stuck by his side, making the two inseparable and stronger than ever. But I am not an emotional sap. In fact, my husband will tell you that life has to get pretty difficult for me to cry. But it never fails. Every single time I get together with my Capital District Writing Project colleagues, as we sit around a large boardroom table with our laptops and notebooks having rich professional conversations, usually punctuated by laughter - I feel the emotion well up inside of me and, without fail, thin, hot tears eek out of the sides of my eyes. Every. Single. Time. 

Crying in front of colleagues whom I admire and respect, though they are accepting, always makes me feel slightly embarrassed ('There's no crying in teaching!'). But I am rarely ever as moved as when I'm working with CDWP teachers. What causes me to be so emotional in the CDWP community that I cannot keep the tears inside? What is it that brings forth such an emotional storm within me? What is it that leaves me feeling so raw? After much reflecting (and many tears), I understand more deeply why I cry.

I cry because we are writers, immersed in the craft we teach. We understand that writing, like creating art, provides an opportunity for deeper understanding, a vehicle through which we interact with our students and ourselves in more complex and sophisticated ways. I cry because this deeper engagement with life inspires me.


I cry because I feel the power and energy of a shared mission, a profound purpose in educating young people, the importance of teaching them how to use writing for a variety of purposes - all of which transcend the test. I am surrounded by teachers who teach students to inquire, engage with, discuss, debate, and discover things around them so that, through writing, they might transform the world. I cry because CDWP teachers see the power our young people should have and are working desperately to give students access to it.


 I cry because I am overwhelmed by the daunting journey of teaching. We face so many challenges - poverty, apathy, lack of parent support, lack of financial support, political maneuvering, and a culture of teacher-blaming; we aren't just teachers, we are social workers, parents, psychologists, cheer-leaders, coaches, and confidantes. I cry because it is a mostly thankless job, and it is hard, and I am tired.

I cry because I am humbled by the power and strength of the individual acts of defiance that CDWP teachers promulgate in our classrooms. We defy being pigeonholed into teaching in artificial and standardized ways. We honor our students as human beings with unique gifts and strengths. We refuse to allow the powers that be dictate what we know as professionals to be best for students. We strive to inspire and motivate them.  I cry because I feel our power.

I cry because we understand that the best teachers are forever learners. We share the excitement that comes from engaging in meaningful learning, striving to become the best teachers that we can be, constantly examining our practice and honing our craft. Our teaching is not stagnant or stifled; we are evolving and blossoming. I cry because we are alive.

Finally, I cry because the rich conversations fill me with life.  We discuss, inquire, inspire, share, support, and recognize one another as teachers and writers. These interactions sustain me, invigorate me with inspiration. I cry because when all is said and done, I feel more human.

Letting the tears fall at professional meetings, as unconventional as the meetings are, will likely never stop making me feel slightly self-conscious. And after much reflection I now understand that it is the empowerment and engagement which get me so emotional, but there's one question that still weighs on my heart: How can I get more?

Alzheimer's Mercy

I learned about Alzheimer's disease up close and personally. Over a span of five years, it slowly robbed my grandfather of his faculty as an artist, craftsman, and human being and stripped him of his dignity, leaving his family and friends clinging to the memory of the man he once was.

Typical of Alzheimer's, it started by taking his short-term memories.  Though he could detail his life growing up during the Great Depression, being the only kid in the neighborhood with a pair of shoes, he forgot about his daily swim in the pool or a trip to the grocery store.

At first, he shared his favorite memories of he and I - watching me pound nails into a deck he was building or how I always beat him in a game of "last one in bed's a rotten egg" - only two or three times in the same phone call. But then the retellings became as frequent as if he was a record on repeat, five, ten, a dozen times every time we talked.

And though I knew that his animated stories were growing numbered, sometimes it was okay, as when he would sing the same songs over and over, giving glimpses of his old self, belting out silly ditties and improving on oldies but goodies. Still, slowly and insidiously, the disease continued to take more and more of him.

I remember during one of our yearly visits having dinner one night, and amid the chicken parm and salad, he came out of an unusual quietude and began to fret that his mother, long since deceased, was going to be angry with him for being late, that he better get home before he got in trouble. He expressed guilt for spending time with a "girl", my grandmother. No amount of assurance or correction could convince him of fact that he was safe and sound in his own home, suffering from Alzheimer's.

It was hard to make sense of what was happening to his mind. He wandered off, even entering a neighbor's home thinking it was his own, causing my grandmother panic and embarrassment, and he had toileting accidents and falls. My grandmother was tortured by the dilemma of whether to continue doing her best to care for him or relinquishing care to a nursing home. Once the paradigm of intelligence and sophistication, my grandfather was now reduced to a child.

 Toward the end, though my grandmother and mother tried to prepare me for what I would see when I finally saw my grandfather face-to-face, by that time in a nursing home, I wasn't prepared for what I saw. I caught sight of him from afar, in a blue wheelchair, his once six foot-two inch height condensed into a shriveled, brittle bag of bones. His head drooped down over his legs, his features down-trodden, his wrinkly, dry hands resting gently on his knees. My tears rushed forth. He didn't recognize me. I barely recognized him. Still, he could smile and squeeze my hand, perhaps sensing I was someone he loved even if he couldn't remember my name.

On my very last visit, this past March, my grandfather was even more a shell of the person he once was. There was an emptiness in his eyes, the life and sparkle deadened into a fixed stare. Though his body remained, heart pumping reliably, he was gone.

Before my grandfather became sick, before the Alzheimer's really gripped him, I used to say that I didn't know what I would do if my grandfather died. Not "when" he died, but "if" he died. He had, in my eyes, an immortality, a life, a joy, that I hoped would never end. When I thought about the inevitable, a sick fear gripped me, and I dreaded how I would react to "the news". I feared I would be a basket case, unable to carry on without his light.

But this is the mercy of Alzheimer's disease. In its long, wide path, it helped prepare us for his death. We had time to ready our hearts. We had glimpses of the loss before it was final. After such a trying, arduous path, we were almost relieved when the end finally arrived.

Too, my grandfather wasn't witness his own demise. Unlike cancer or some similar fate, his decline wasn't apparent to him, only to his loved ones, whose love for him, especially my grandmother's, knew no bounds and was unceasingly strong, knowing not weariness or failure. Though those who witnessed his deterioration pained for him and the person he once was, we were grateful that he didn't have to know what was happening to him, that he didn't have to understand the terrible robbery that was taking place.

My grandfather was the kind of human being who made this world a better place. His intelligence, gentility, and kindness made life fuller for those people whose paths he crossed. He deserved a better end. But we don't get to pick our passing. In death, those who go on living must find the silver lining, the glimmer in the darkness.

Alzheimer's disease was a rough and ruthless teacher, reminding me to treasure every moment, every memory. But it also had a kind mercy, a mercy which guided me, at times gently, through the grieving process, helping me come to grips with the impending death of a man who was my teacher, my joy, my grandfather, my guiding light.

Deciding Factors

There has never been a more important time for Americans to pay attention to politics. We have a national debt in the trillions. Muslim extremism is gaining influence around the world, even here at home. We must co-exist with rogue nations such as Iran and North Korea, and we have rocky relationships with Israel and China, countries crucial to our success. Each and every American needs to carefully consider and question the facts, ignore political propaganda on t.v. and Facebook, weigh his or her own priorities and values, and make an informed decision about who is better suited to serve our great nation and grapple in a bi-partisan way with its many complex challenges.

For me, deciding who will earn my vote was a long, arduous process which involved a lot of soul-searching and countless hours of listening to a wide variety of news programs, including NPR, C-SPAN, MSNBC, CNN, BBC, and FOX, as well as listening to much of the Presidential and Vice Presidential debates. At last, I have made my decision. It was not based on the economy or national security; rather, I based my decision on a more insidious problem, a long-overdue injustice which needs to be righted: equal rights for American citizens.

Make no mistake, I strongly believe that the United States is a wonderful country, and I am extremely grateful to be an American: I have an abundance of food to eat. I live in safety and comfort. I have excellent health care. I have a very good education which has afforded me a good career with benefits and a pension.  Not to mention, I have a loving and supportive family. However, I don't believe that our country provides all its citizens with equal opportunities for food, shelter, education, health care, and prosperity. Though I undoubtably worked hard for what I have, I was also born into circumstances which supported my pursuit. Not all people are so fortunate.

I believe that all men, women, and children are created equally, and as Americans, we deserve certain freedoms, irrespective of their socioeconomic station, geographical location, race, gender, or sexual orientation. Far too many of our citizens do not recieve the basic necessities and opportunities with which to develop and use their inner gifts and talents in order to be successful and prosper.

It is late 2012 and much inequality still exists. Despite 2008 legislation, women still make 78% of what a man does for the same work. Children in suburban regions receive a far superior education to their urban and rural counterparts with unequal access to schools that are safe, adequate and relevant books and supplies, and technologies which are crucial to their - our - success as a nation in a 21st century world. Minimum wage is not a living wage. A few thousand have an exorbitant amount of wealth while millions are in poverty and without adequate health services. I believe these extreme imbalances among our own people are an intolerable injustice.

Though our country faces many important problems, and all of them deserve careful attention, for me, it is these imbalances in our own backyard which need immediate addressing and which determined my vote for the 2012 election. I urge everyone of voting age to go through a similar rigorous process of considering one's values and beliefs, along with stringent fact-searching and questioning of a wide-variety of sources, to make a responsible decision. Our great nation and its citizens deserve that, at least.

Teaching Injustice

My students are amazing. We have been studying the theme of taking a stand. Now, to show what they have learned, they must use their own writing to take a stand on an issue of great importance to them, and at the tender ages of twelve and thirteen, they have taken on some challenging work.

Two boys are writing to their principal urging him to consider giving the seventh grade much needed daily recess, a time to blow off some of the stress that middle school brings, a time to rejeuvenate and refresh themselves in order to focus more successfully on their classes and schoolwork.

Another boy is urging his peers to take better care of the school bathrooms and drinking fountains.

A handful of students are writing to family members or close friends. Their writing details the distress they feel seeing their loved ones risk their health and future by smoking or chewing tobacco. Their writing serves as encouragement for their loved ones to quit.

One girl is writing to her mom, asking her to talk about her father who, five years ago, passed away in a tragic accident. She hopes that from her mom's stories, she can add to the limited memories she has of her father and continue to know him, even in his death.

One boy is taking a stand against someone who makes him feel stupid and unimportant. He feels that she is unkind and shows him no compassion. So, he is writing a letter to her - his teacher - asking her to treat him as she treats the rest of his peers, with more patience and understanding.

Many students are standing up to bullying and teasing. One girl is teased because she is extremely tall, another because she is very petite. One boy, known for being a jokester, is teased for being fat. It is so upsetting to him that he is afraid to eat lunch. Another girl is writing about how she is picked on because of her African hair. They are all writing letters to their tormentors demanding to be treated with respect.

And these are just some examples. All of the students have chosen to use their writing in ways that are meaningful in an attempt to make right an injustice they witness.

During the course of our journey through this project, writing, revising, and publishing the students' work, we talk about a lot of things. We discuss the concept of injustice and its consequences and effects. We talk about responsibility and complicity.  We analyze the tone, word choice, and organization of our writing. We have in-depth conversations about how to best accomplish each writer's purpose with his or her audience.

At the end of the writing process, most students choose to post their writing on our classroom wall. We have a Writing Celebration with some light snacks. We spend the class period reading one another's final pieces, responding in writing to them. The students feel a sense of pride and accomplishment.  Our classroom community is strengthened. The students see each other differently. It is an experience that many of my past students tell me they have never forgotten.

What we don't talk about at any point during this project, however, is the New York State ELA test they will spend three days taking in May. We don't talk about how their growth as students will be judged by their performance on one test. We don't discuss how their performance will be a significant factor in determining how effective as a teacher I am judged to be. The word "standardized" and the phrase "choose the best answer" are never uttered.

Though in some ways my students are normal twelve and thirteen year olds who giggle and play jokes on one another, who can be dramatic and mischevious, they also reveal through these writings, maturity that extends beyond their years. After almost seven years of teaching and 30 years of life, I am humbled by their bravery and the important work they are doing.

And that's something a standardized test can't measure.

Day 5 Power 90 Challenge: Rolodex of Excuses

Throughout the day, I ran through a litany of excuses for why I couldn't workout tonight. Here's a brief list:

1. I had to work late.
2. I'm tired and might hurt myself.
3. My throat hurts so badly that I grimmace to swallow and find no pleasure in food, thus,
4. I must skip my workout and go to bed early in order to build my immunity.
5. My eyes might not stay open for the whole workout.
6. Because I'm so tired, I might injure myself. (It's twice as likely and therefore deserves double consideration.)
7. Who's really gonna be mad at me for skipping my workout? It's not like I'll get a detention or a late fee.
8. I'll just switch Day 7, a rest day, for today.
9. I deserve a break.
10. Etc.

I finally decided on a combination of "explanations" for why I wasn't going to workout (an even split between numbers 3, 4, and 7). But then I came upon a reason TO workout. As I was checking Facebook (because I'm not too tired or sick for that), I saw a comment on yesterday's blog entry. One of my colleagues wrote a short, quick congratulatory note - praising my elbow sweat, I think - encouraging me to keep going on my journey. All the excuses not to workout melted away. I decided to workout. And it felt good.

Though life is busy, we must make time to share with others a word or two of kindness. We never know when we might make a difference in someone's life. Some might think the difference in my case was small. But for anyone who has a rolodex of excuses for why they can't/shouldn't/won't workout, the difference between working out for 50 minutes and not at all, is huge.

Day 4 Power 90 Challenge

Today's workout was like all my workouts. I came home exhausted and dreading it. I thought about ways I could avoid it. In truth, had I not committed myself to doing the Power 90 challenge and announced it on Facebook through my blog, I would have skipped exercising today. Which would lead to not working out tomorrow. And probably not the next day. Etcetera. This has been my history.

But I did workout today. And as usually happens, about five minutes after I started, I began to enjoy myself, feeling my muscles working and my joints growing more limber. I could tell I was making progress. As I was doing pushups, I could tell that I was growing stronger. I could do 5 half-pushups before I needed a break instead of 3 (sadly, I'm not exaggerating) . I could do 4 sets instead of 3. I could go lower to the ground. And as always, as I was marvelling at my small improvements, I found myself wondering why I don't workout more often. And how sad it is that I can't even do a pushup.

Day 3 Power 90 Challenge

Today, motivation was relatively easy. I figured if I can drop off my barely three month-old, beautiful, perfect, angelic, cuter-than-all-heck baby to daycare (however great the care-takers) AND NOT CRY (until I picked her up anyway), then I can at least excercise for an hour. Even though my arms and abs were especially sore in places I never knew I had muscles, I worked hard and pushed myself, taking only a few very short water breaks. (Okay, one time I stopped to pee too.) It felt very rewarding to finish the workout, despite the fact that I cheated at the end and didn't do the last 1/2 minute of abs (anything called "full body crunch" deserves to be skipped - at least in the beginning). I know I worked hard because my elbows were sweating. And the best part was I didn't even cry afterward.