Anita Bushell: writer and editor
Last week I taught an Object Essays workshop, the first of its kind, at the newly renovated Mid-Manhattan Library, now known as the Stavros Niarchos Foundation Library.
A gorgeous site, it was an absolute delight to bring the world of object essay writing to new participants, as well as some good friends, from previous Writer’s Circle workshops.
What a joy it was to be teaching at the library again.
“The news has gotten grimmer, and the world has gotten grimmer. People need a break from the seriousness of global warming and war and political feuding. These kinds of stories give people that moment. – Steven Kurutz, The New York Times
The girl was walking the dog. Mom was beside her.
I’d seen them before, going in this direction. My dog is large, her dog is small. Like most small children, though, she is in her world. She has her dog, and I have mine. She is focused on walking hers.
With the arrival of summer and the end of school, the neighborhood has, in places, settled into a summer slumber. The days are long, and time and the sun stretch out. The streets are quiet, there is less traffic, but the playgrounds are full. The neighborhood pool is open. The sprinkler is on; the ice cream truck is parked. A mother and two sons enjoy their cones.
My late mother-in-law once said she loved being with her children in the summer, stress free from schedules, homework, and math. The mother on the street seems to be enjoying her time with her little one, and the girl is taking her job quite seriously, walking the dog, a Fisher-Price beagle that thwacks on the ground as its owner pulls a long cotton string.
There are summer stories everywhere.
Last week I went to a concert. And I thought of my dad. He would have been 95 this June.
Central Park’s Naumburg Bandshell had fallen on hard times when I was a kid. Covered in graffiti and simply looking sad, it would be decades before it would see the elegant restoration it recently received.
On the program: the overture to Mozart’s Le Nozze de Figaro, Louise Ferrenc’s Symphony Number Three, and the glorious Pastorale of Beethoven, one of Daniel’s favorites.
I remember the album cover of Daniel’s copy of the Pastorale from when I was a child; I can’t think of how many times I’ve heard it played over the years; but to hear it live in Central Park, of all places, surrounded by lush and leafy elms from the 19th century? Heavenly.
A cloudless sky. Birds accompanied the glorious flute trills, several school-aged children sat in rapt attention, and an older couple planted themselves on the ground with their perfectly poised charge, most likely a grandchild, who listened to the concert while eating a slice of watermelon.
Daniel gave me the gift of music. I could not be more grateful.
“Catch a wave and you’re sitting on top of the world.” – The Beach Boys
The boy was talking to the waves, arguing with them, perhaps even trying to fight them.
I was at the beach, my season opener, and I was already in a great mood. The playlist was cued, the sun was out. And then I saw him.
He was about eight years of age, and he was having some kind of communication with the waves, part dance, part karate. If I had to interpret, I’d say he was getting up the nerve to go in. I finally stuck my toes in and stopped paying attention, thinking about the sensations of the moment – the visual (sun, open sky); the sound (waves crashing); the feeling (sand, water); and the smell (salt). What have I left out? Oh, taste. We’d just had bagels, and everything somehow tastes better at the beach.
If I wrote about this, it would be the perfect sense memory moment. Then I turned and I saw the boy, having plunged in, happier than he was – if this was possible – mere moments before.
And in that moment, I was on top of the world.
“Nature had come into her own again and, little by little, in her stealthy, insidious way had encroached upon the drive with long, tenacious fingers ....” (Rebecca, Daphne du Maurier)
I always think of those words when gardening, especially in Virginia, where the wisteria has taken over, having a mind of its own, simply laughing at those of us foolish enough to think we can control her. Luckily, the hot weather prevents me from doing more than a little work in the morning, then perhaps a bit at the end of the day. The sun saves me.
A term I only learned recently was being in the weeds, which while perfect for gardening is also apt for writing, in which you can sometimes find yourself tangled and confused. This is when walking away, one of my favorite ideas, comes into play. Before you get to the point of utter frustration, try walking away and taking a deep breath. Go outside. Think about something else. Come back when ready.
I first heard of the Pomodoro Technique when I taught middle school. In this method, you work without distraction (hide that phone) for 25 minutes (I use 30), then you stop, take a break, and return. I cannot tell you how much I have achieved, using this approach, not only for writing, but for a multitude of daily living tasks, as well. It is the “without interruption” part that is crucial, the total focus, and grounding in the moment, that is the key here.
In case you’re wondering, pomodoro comes from the tomato-shaped kitchen timer Francesco Cirillo used when he was a student at Rome’s Luiss Business School in the late 1980s.
The great Italian cookbook author, Marcella, Hazen once wrote, “Words are capable of mysterious chemistry. Taken singly, the three common words [Good Italian Cooking] appear plain enough in their meaning. We can use any one of them in ordinary conversation, confident we’ll be understood. But put just two of them together and you can set off a debate.”
Last week, I wrote about focusing on fun words before creating “perfect” sentences. But I love Hazen’s idea of word chemistry and mixing and matching as we come up with different meanings.
Here’s an example from my walk the other day: electric green field. It was early and the sun drenched the field, giving the new growth a bright green quality as if it had been electrified.
You can put green and field together; this meaning is clear. What about electric and green? How about switching? Green electric. And then there is electric field…
So many choices, yet not a sentence to be found…
The Week In Writing is Back! I’m thrilled and grateful for a coffee conversation with a friend about writing and all its myriad challenges.
Here’s a story that illustrates one of the many of these myriad challenges. Years ago, I was in Boston, visiting friends, and I had a knitting project with me. My host suggested that we go to the local yarn shop, where I got into a great conversation with the manager about the challenges she sees with beginning knitters. She said that it’s rare that students want to start at the beginning and make something achievable, like a scarf. More often, they want to make a sweater, which is an advanced project that you have to work your way up to. Her point was that you have to go through the stages of learning a new skill and that, most importantly, you have to learn to tolerate the frustration of the learning curve.
I’ve seen this over and over with writing students of all ages. They want perfection, and don’t want frustration. Of course they don’t. Who does? Yet, as we all know, you can’t get to at least better writing without frustration.
That said, here’s an idea: before writing sentences, write down words. Words you like, words that please you, words that conjure images you’d like to write about. Why do this? Because you’re just coming up with words, not trying to write the perfect sentence.
Here’s another idea: write down the word perfect. Now write down a few words about its meaning.
See where this takes you…
December was a full, yet short month. Adding a new close-reading initiative, in preparation for the state exam in March, made it even fuller.
A welcome end came with the last day of school and an activity period. Students did winter-themed word searches and crossword puzzles, while snacking on cookies and candy canes. They also watched The Grinchand listened to holiday music.
It was a beautiful thing.
Perhaps it was the location. Maybe it was the size of the group. Then again, it could be the cookies.
The last three days of school were spent celebrating some 7th graders. This was not a whole class activity, though. We were honoring the 90% -- those students who, since September, have consistently done the right thing in the classroom. They make up a silent majority, but they struggle in their own way against those students who are more vocal.
In every class I’ve taught, I’ve tried to champion these students – no easy feat, when you realize how much time is devoted to the 10%. The moment of truth comes when you have the space to have a conversation with one of these students and you are horrified to discover you barely know them.
Outside the head-of-school’s office, we sat at a large table, talked, did a free write, and ate home-baked chocolate-chip cookies. Some groups were more successful than others. There is always a dynamic. The most joyous one, in my opinion, was the one where there were constant smiles, laughs, and lots of writing.
What better way to start the Thanksgiving break?
And then there were the seventh graders.
A portion of them is struggling. There are behavioral issues, and a memory lapse of what school is all about. Still, they come every day and make some kind of effort.
The bigger picture is that writing is hard, no matter where you teach. Some students will get it, and some will not. For those that will not, it’s much harder to catch up because writing, unlike math or reading, is not concrete. It is personal.
Then there is the pandemic, with its masks, and sneeze guards, and community-busting mandate. Where does one even begin?
In addition, our school is in the struggling neighborhood of Brownsville, where 36% of residents live below the federal poverty line, and 44% of adults are unemployed. It also is home to the largest concentration of public housing in the U.S.
Oh, and then there is that little matter of adolescence, including hormones, and an I’m-not-going-to-listen-to-anything-you-say attitude. A winning picture, overall.
And yet, amidst all of this, the seventh graders put together research papers on the Holocaust. Some were rudimentary, reflecting all the work that needs to be done this year, and some were extraordinary, showing thought, effort, and tenacity.
Somehow, there was order out of sheer chaos.
Okay, they didn’t all read their own work. Some of them wanted to but asked me. As usual, I was honored.
The eighth graders worked so hard on their personal statements, and we finally got to the publishing party. About half the class shared their pieces, and the most-covered topics were overcoming challenges, and learning to ask for help. I was so proud of the effort they put in, as well as their ability to accept gentle support in making their writing stronger.
At the end, there were homemade chocolate chip cookies and popcorn. Not a bad way to end the week.
They wrote about anxiety. They wrote about depression. Finally, they wrote about death.
This week’s writing prompt: how did the pandemic affect you?
Some of them didn’t want to write about the pandemic. That was fine. I wasn’t going to make them. The point was to get everyone writing.
Then there were the share outs. This is where it got really interesting. One class did really well with respectfully listening to their classmates without comment. The other class, not so much. Also, some students asked me to read their pieces. Their subject matter was too painful for them to read. I was honored they asked.
These Friday writing sessions have been a powerful reminder of how important it is to give students agency and a chance to be heard. Just one of the many reasons students should write as much as possible.
For the first time since school started, the seventh graders got to read their writing.
It was the day before Halloween, and they were in costumes. It was time to give them a break and have some fun. What was so encouraging was seeing how excited they were to do some creative writing and sharing it out.
Now it‘s time to do this on a regular basis. We owe it to them.
I shared the news that Abdulrazak Gurnah had won the Nobel Prize in Literature with my eighth-grade writing class last week.
Gurnah began writing in a dairy when he was forced to leave his native Zanzibar for England in 1964.
“Miserable, poor, homesick, he began to write scraps about home in his diary, then longer entries, then stories about other people. Those scattered reflections, the habit of writing to understand and document his own dislocation, eventually gave rise to his first novel, then nine more — works that explore the lingering trauma of colonialism, war and displacement.” – The New York Times
I encouraged the students to write in their journals at home. For Gurnah, it all started with a diary, I told them.
“Can I apply for that prize?” one of the students asked.
It’s been a busy couple of weeks.
Some highlights: all the students in the school practiced their cursive skills for a Brain Breakfast activity (time before Homeroom starts). I walked around and observed. Everyone seemed happy and engaged. Interesting note: one teacher observed that some students were having more trouble than others. We both agreed that those who struggled less probably had some cursive training in elementary school. Those who struggled more probably did not.
Another highlight: an eighth-grade student came up to me in the hallway and told me how much she enjoys our writing class.
“You made my day!” I told her. “Thank you!”
Indeed, I asked her if she writes outside of school.
“Not so much,” she answered.
“Let’s do something about that,” I encouraged.
When asked to use the word “why" in a sentence the boy wrote “Why do I need an education?”
What’s fascinated me about this is that I thought only the adults were, in the wake of the pandemic, asking the big questions.
Students, however, after a year-and-a-half of uncertainty, are questioning a lot of things as well. Especially at the middle school level, where they would be testing the limits even in a pandemic-less year.
And many of them struggled with remote learning and may not have even signed on at all. Being back in the building then, on some levels, is all new again.
Perhaps one reason we need an education is to learn how to learn once more.
Ah, that eighth grade class. When I walk into that room, I am living the dream. They are ready, respectful, and roaring to go.
On Friday, I was covering for my co-teacher and I was on my own. We talked about the lesson — we would be reading Roald Dahl’s Lamb to the Slaughter, and I fully assumed they would want to read on their own, then we would discuss as a class. One young woman raised her hand and asked if they could possibly work in groups. Up to now, they had been reading Poe, and she found it much easier to read with her peers, rather than having to go it alone.
We came up with a plan. Students would work together for twenty minutes, then we would re-group to see where we were. The timer went off, and I began circling the room. What I saw was simply beautiful: students standing and reading for each other, having great conversations about addiction, and domestic roles, and simply behaving like true scholars. Most importantly, there were no behavioral issues to get in their way.
It was, quite simply, a gift.
Favorite moment of last week: an 8th grader dancing in the back of the room to Conjunction Junction, the Schoolhouse Rock video that connects you with and, but, and so.
What this series did so brilliantly is they made the thing you needed to learn fun – in this case conjunctions – by adding catchy tunes and groovy graphics. Oh, and they aired them on Saturday mornings on ABC during the kid’s TV programs. Basically, you were watching a cartoon between the cartoons, but you were learning at the same time, not just being passively entertained.
And with Conjunction Junction, you got a rhythm-and-blues song that my generation still refers to. I can just picture the backup singers and lead they hired for the gig.
Hence the happiness: “This is good!” the 8th grader told me, flashing me a big smile.
“Raise your hand if you like writing,” I said. Several hands went up. “Now, raise your hand if you don’t like writing. And be honest,” I added. Lots of hands went up.
The sixth graders came back on Wednesday, and by Thursday we had jumped right into The Legend of Sundiata, the West African tale that The Lion King is based on. My co-teacher and I took turns reading, then we began a character discussion: who are the main ones and what are their motivations?
By the end of class, I heard students putting away their writing materials while asking each other questions about the story. “Wait, did he die?”
Maybe some of the students don’t like writing, but they were all completely engaged in the story.
Which is, of course, what writing is: storytelling.
You do something for long enough and you don’t remember how you learned to do it in the first place.
That’s how it is with paragraph structure. I’ll be teaching it this week to the sixth grade and I have to re-learn how to break it down, from the claim and the context to the evidence and the analysis.
This is going to be hard because writing, in general, is hard. I heard that last week when I was doing some research on the Writing Revolution, and it was a very helpful reminder.
Writing is hard and the only way to understand the process is to learn how to break down the steps and identify the parts that make it up.