Matching Tracksuits

I was discussing with my principal how I’d like to reward the class (fourth period) that had absolutely no NHIs for the whole quarter. That means every student turned in every assignment. Seems basic, mundane even. To put it in context, one class had 57 NHIs for fewer assignments.

“I’d really like to reward them, but it would be great to be able to do something really big for them, like buy everyone lunch. But we’d need a budget like the Department of Defense,” I said.

“We are the DoD,” he laughed. “Those people out their have no idea what we’re saving them from…”

We’re starting a new unit at with the on-level eighth graders this week, and as I always do, I consulted the district pacing guide to see what the recommended teaching topics were and how much time we should spend on each topic.

It’s a unit on horror fiction (because of Halloween, I suppose), and the first piece in the textbook is a relatively short literary analysis called “What Is the Horror Genre?” — it’s short, but not easy for eighth graders. Nor is it what we could call a high-interest text. The piece in its relatively short entirety:

Many people define horror by its subjects. We all think of creatures like Frankenstein’s monster, Dracula, and the wolfman as monsters in the horror genre. Each one of these creatures has a history and developed over a period of time. But we also know that horror covers more than just these monsters. We could all make long lists of the kind of creatures we identify with horror, especially when we think of films as well as literature. The minute we would start to make such a list we would also realize that not all monsters are alike and that not all horror deals with monsters. The subject approach is not the clearest way to define this genre.

Some students of this genre find that the best way to examine it is to deal with the way horror fiction is organized or structured. Examining the organization of a horror story shows that it shares certain traits with other types of fiction. Horror stories share the use of suspense as a tactic with many other kinds of literature. The tension we feel when a character goes into the attic, down into the basement, or just into the abandoned house is partially a result of suspense. We don’t know what is going to happen. But that suspense is intensified by our knowledge of the genre. We know that characters involved in the world of horror always meet something awful when they go where they shouldn’t. Part of the tension is created because they are doing something we know is going to get them in trouble. Stephen King refers directly to our anticipation of horror. In Salem’s Lot Susan approaches the house which is the source of evil. “She found herself thinking of those drive-in horror movie epics where the heroine goes venturing up the narrow attic stairs . . . or down into some dark, cobwebby cellar . . . and she . . . thinking: . . . I’d never do that!” Of course Susan’s fears are justified. She does end up dead in the basement, a victim of the vampire

If the horror genre uses the character’s search for information to create suspense, it controls when and where we get our knowledge. Because we are outside of the situation we usually know more than the characters. Our advance knowledge creates suspense because we can anticipate what is going to happen. The author can play with those expectations by either confirming them or surprising us with a different outcome. When suspense is an important element in fiction we may often find that the plot is the most critical part of the story. We care more about what happens next than about who the characters are or where the story is set. But setting is often considered a part of the horror genre. If the genre has traditional monsters, it also has traditional settings. Only authors who want to challenge the tradition place events in bright, beautiful parks. We expect a connection between the setting and the events in this genre. We are not surprised to find old houses, abandoned castles, damp cellars, or dark forests as important elements in the horror story. Some people make further distinctions based on how the stories are organized. We can divide stories into different categories based on how we come to believe in the events related and how they are explained to us. Stories that deal with parallel worlds expect us to accept those worlds without question. We just believe Dorothy is in Oz; we accept Oz as a parallel world separate from ours. Other times events seem to be supernatural but turn out to have natural explanations: the ghosts turn out to be squirrels in the attic, or things that move mysteriously are part of a plot to drive someone crazy. Sometimes the supernatural is the result of the way the central character sees the world, as in stories told from the point of view of a crazy person. But at times we are not sure, and hesitate about believing in the possibility of the supernatural. When I first read Dracula I seriously considered hanging garlic on my windows because I believed that vampires could exist. This type of hesitation, when we almost believe, falls into the general category of the “fantastic” (Todorov 25). Often horror has its greatest effect on us because we almost believe, or believe while we are reading the book or watching the film, that the events are possible.

Yet another way of categorizing works of horror is by the source of the horror. Some horror comes from inside the characters. Something goes wrong inside, and a person turns into a monster. Dr. Frankenstein’s need for knowledge turns him into the kind of person who creates a monster. Dr. Jekyll also values his desire for information above all else, and creates Mr. Hyde. In another kind of horror story the threat to the central character or characters comes from outside. An outside force may invade the character and then force the evil out again. The vampire attacks the victim, but then the victim becomes a vampire and attacks others. Stories of ghosts or demonic possession also fall into this category.

We can also look at the kinds of themes common to horror. Many works concentrate on the conflict between good and evil. Works about the fantastic may deal with the search for forbidden knowledge that appears in much horror literature. Such quests are used as a way of examining our attitude toward knowledge. While society may believe that new knowledge is always good, the horror genre may question this assumption, examining how such advances affect the individual and society.

Not exactly a thrilling read for eighth graders. I make an argument before we begin: “Think of this as practice for all the times you’ll have to read a text in the future that really holds no interest for you but is important for this reason or that — job, education, whatever it might be.” But why should be subjecting reluctant readers to something so dry and boring? Why do I do it? The short answer to the second question is simple: the district requires it. Hardly a compelling reason. As for the first question — I don’t have an answer. The situation is simple, though: no one wants to read it because it’s not terribly interesting and it’s at a reading level that’s overly challenging for them. I don’t want to force them to read it because they’re reluctant readers as it is: forcing this shit down their throats only makes them less interested in reading. But the state adopted this textbook which included this piece; the district made the pacing guide; administrators require us to follow the pacing guide; and we teachers are left with the unenviable task of trying to get kids to read this.

As for the pacing guide, we’re to spend four days on this. Day one has four options for the learning target.

(A few words about “learning target.” Education is obsessed with jargon, and the experts at the district and state levels seem to think that changing the name of the jargon and slightly altering how we word the jargon will make qualitative and quantitative differences in the students’ education. Our district used the “Essential Question” as the framing device for each lesson. We were to put them on the board and use it to frame our planning and instructional delivery: the kids at the end of the lesson should be able to answer the question. It might sound like this: “How do I analyze how supporting details contribute to the development of two or more central ideas within an informational text?” Now we’ve got a new silver bullet: the learning target. How would the learning target differ from the essential question above? It’s a radical difference, one that has revolutionized my classroom. “How do I analyze how supporting details contribute to the development of two or more central ideas within an informational text?” becomes “I can analyze how supporting details contribute to the development of two or more central ideas within an informational text.” It’s made a big difference in my classroom. Formerly disengaged learners have come up to me afterward and explained, “Mr. Scott, when we had those essential questions, I felt so lost. I really didn’t know what was going on, and all learning just seemed pointless. With theses new learning targets, though, everything has changed. I’m a new boy! My attention is more focused. My desire to be disruptive has disappeared. And I even do my homework now! Thanks, learning target!”)

The district pacing guide suggests four possible learning targets for the first day:

1. I can analyze how supporting details contribute to the development of two or more central ideas within an informational text.
2. I can analyze how supporting details contribute to the development of two or more central ideas across informational texts.
3. I can summarize the most important ideas and content from grade-level texts to enhance comprehension.
4. I can paraphrase content from grade-level texts while conveying the same meaning to enhance comprehension.

What are we doing for day two? The district suggests this learning target: “I can edit to use a comma or dash to indicate a pause or break when writing compositions.” So we’re going to make it through this challenging text in one day? Really?

Still, I guess I can see how we could do focus on commas for a while after we finish the text. We might spend some time looking at how the article used commas (Did it really make use of commas? There are a few.) or dashes (Did it really use that many dashes? Not a single one.) and then the next day, we could perhaps do some independent practice with commas. That would be a logical day 3 learning target.

Day 3: “I can identify and revise inappropriate shifts in number when writing compositions.”

What the hell is this? We’re just supposed to suddenly change to another grammar-based idea out of the blue? What happened with comma practice? Are we to get all instruction and all practice done in one day? With squirrely eighth graders? And just what, pray tell, is the connection to our anchor text (another lovely bit of jargon)? Surely day four is going to continue with this subject/verb agreement lesson of day three.

Day 4: “I can use appropriate parallel structure in words, phrases, and clauses when writing compositions.”

Screw it — I give up. I just give up. I understand why this is in there — parallel structure is one of the eighth-grade standards. But it is such a relatively esoteric compositional idea that most adults in the building (other than English teachers) wouldn’t recognize a parallel structure error let alone correct it. I could teach this to my students, but it would take at least a week, and even then, I’m not sure how long they would retain it. And for what? Maybe one question on the beloved end of the year test? (And if it is on the end of the year test, it won’t be worded using “parallel structure.” Instead, it will have a sentence that has a parallel structure problem and the question will be, “What is the best way to revise this sentence?” Getting them to that point? It’s not going to happen.)

I long for a district that says, “We trust your professional judgment. We believe you can quickly assess where your students are, design lessons to improve their reading and writing, and implement those lessons without us telling you all the whats, whens, whys, and hows.” I long for a state department of education that thinks improvement is more important than reaching some arbitrary standard. If I worked in a state and district that required all the people working in administrative positions to spend at least half their day in the classroom themselves so they can see how their policies affect students and teachers, that is exactly the kind of state and district we’d have.

We’re working on poetry in my honors classes, and being halfway through the unit, we’ve turned our attention to one of the most difficult things to do in the class: determine the tone of something. Our something was Billy Collins’s (rightfully) semi-famous “The Lanyard.”

The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light

and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth

that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.

Afterward, we listen to Collins doing a reading. The laughter surprises them. Who would think poetry could be funny? Their homework: graph the laugh. Today, we go over it.

It’s an example of perfect comedic timing. Collins builds the anticipation with the first two lanyard references, which come quickly one after another. Then he goes several lines focusing on the mother before reminding us about the lanyard.

The anticipation is such that the audience even chucks a bit at the line “here are thousands of means” and a little less at “here is clothing and a good education.” The anticipation appropriately high, Collins then hits us with one of the best lines of the poem: “And here is your lanyard, I replied / which I made with a little help from a counselor.”

The kids always find it amusing later, but none of them ever laugh the first times we go through it.

Some day…

Some day…