Yesterday I led some middle school students in a session at a writing workshop. Each young writer got a small mirror tile. I spoke about the layers of an onion--the outer crackly-paper skin, so delicate and thin. Then I dug into the onion with my fingernails as we discussed how we are like the onion...we have an outer, fragile layer which covers layer after layer. Some of those layers are so private, no one sees them. Others we share with our family, our friends, our loved ones.
 |
| photo by faygate |
The students used the mirror tiles to look at parts of their faces. They were instructed to imagine...If someone saw them walking down the street, and saw their eyes, their mouth, their nose, their hair...what judgements would they make? What kind of labels would they come up with?
We discussed teenagers, and the stereotypes teens are burdened with. We discussed football players, African Anmericans (especially African American males), students from expensive private schools and the erroneous conclusions people jump to when they encounter them---we had them all in our community of writers.
The students then wrote--prose or poetry--about the surface them compared to the real person underneath the surface. Some of them began with "People think I'm....but really, I'm...." One writer created an interesting "checklist," with checkmarks in the boxes of things she really was, and Xs in the boxes of things that people thought about her but were incorrect. We then shared our pieces (some of us) and I put in a plug for NaNoWriMo.
Two of the writers had earned an a field trip to an amusement park for the same day--due to being on the Honor Roll--but chose writing instead. How cool was that?
Here is what I wrote as we all sat and created together:
You see someone fat, frumpy...
But deep down inside,
I'm really a skydiving,
Breaking Bad-watching woman.
You judge me,
calling me old,
calling me out of touch.
But under the surface
is a tattooed semi-radical,
a Sons of Anarchy fanatic
left behind from the 60's.
You envision me as slow-moving,
lethargic--part of the primordial ooze
I perhaps rose up from?
But try to tred on my passion,
try to smother my fire...
and you'll see.
What do people think when they see you? When strangers see you on the street, when someone hears you read your writing out loud but has never met you, what impressions do they form? What kind of "mask" do you wear, and what lies under the surface?
Come on--share. It's safe. We're all writers 'round here...
This afternoon we took up some of our math time to continue writing, since we go to recess from 11:00-11:20, have writing from 11:20-11:50, then lunch from 11:50-12:20. Drinks of water and bathroom trips have to be squeezed in somehow and somewhere.
The students have worked on beginning drafts of their memoirs. At the third grade, their beginnings are not always engaging. Some Most of them are not experienced story-tellers, so they think, "This story is about a time when I was excited," is a great opening line.
Today I told a story about when I broke my arm. I told the story in just a couple of sentences: "When I was 12 I fell off the high diving board. Part of me went into the water and part of me landed on the concrete."
I then asked if they had any questions---questions that were not answered by that kernel of a story. They had many questions. Did I have to see a nurse or doctor? Did I cry? What part of me landed on the concrete? (They probably thought it was surely my head that hit the cement!) Did I cry? Did I get into trouble? What made me fall?
I then chose one of the questions that interested me the most, and used it as a springboard for a new story beginning. I chose the "Did you cry?" question.
I didn't cry when it happened. I didn't cry when everyone at the pool was talking about me. I didn't cry as I walked home. I didn't even cry when I got home and my mom asked why I was back from the pool so early---I just slipped into my room. But I did finally cry when, no longer able to hide my arm, I admitted to my mom that something was wrong. Something terrible had happened at the pool, and now my arm couldn't even hold a towel...
That day began like any other summer day. I went...
The students saw that they can begin in the middle, and flash back in time. A really cool thing that writers do is keep the reader in suspense for a bit. The author does not have to tell what the story is about in the first sentence. Let the reader be intrigued. Let them hunger for more...
Following are a few beginnings the kids wrote:
Yes, I did cry.
I cried when my mom put me on her back. I cried when I got in the car. I cried when I got in the house. My mom told me to stop crying. I did not stop.
She got some alcohol. It was cold. She put it on my knee and she told me to stop crying and I stopped crying. She put a bandaid on it and went to my gran's house.
-------------------------------------------------
Yes, I was scared. When I had opened the door he was getting closer to me, so I went to the back of my closet and I stayed there.
My heart was beating so fast. The closet was so dark in there, I was scared even more so.
(That story is about an older brother who scared her when he put on a mask.)
---------------------------------------------------
When it happened, everyone cried 'til they dropped to their knees. Everyone begged for him to come alive.
But the doctor said he was dead.
( I love the image of family members dropping to their knees. I told this student I wanted to steal that line and use it in a story of my own.)
---------------------------------------
I never forgave my aunt.
When I see her at holidays, I think of what she had done. Sometimes when I see her I walk away from her. Sometimes I even get in trouble with her, and we start to argue, so then I go to my grandma's room because my aunt infuriates me.
I'm still mad at her to this day...
(This student had a pet dog, and the aunt sold the dog at a yard sale---without the family's permission.)
 |
| photo by anthonyasael |
Hopefully I will have more promising beginnings tomorrow. (Most of the class took them home to work on them.)
