My Graduation Keynote Speech

Since it is now obvious to me that my invitations to speak at any graduation ceremony had been lost in the mail, I shall address the speech I had written in anticipation of said invitations to all graduates of the class of 2012.

Graduates:

Today you find yourself at the end of one seemingly long journey and at the beginning of an assuredly longer one.  Yet, these two journeys are far more alike than they appear.

Regardless of what you may think, regardless of low test scores, regardless of reports attacking the efficacy of public education, you, as successful graduates, now possess all the experience you ever will need to lead productive and satisfying lives.

Robert Fulcrum said that everything you ever really needed to know, you learned in kindergarten.  He was, however, only one thirteenth correct.

I know to some of you this may come off as rather depressing, but school and the rest of your life are pretty much the same; it is just we adults who change the verbiage so everything sounds much more complicated than it really is.  Take for example attendance.

Attendance is just as important in the real world as it is in school.  Poor attendance will wreak havoc with your professional as well as your social life.  Your boss never wants to see you saunter in even two minutes late.  If this by chance does occur, make sure you’re seen working at least twenty minutes past your usual time.  Much like detention, this does not serve much of a purpose aside from giving a pleasurable feeling of power to those in charge.  Never be truant from a reunion with old friends or a family wedding.  No matter how good you think your excuse is, even if you have a doctor’s note, it will never be good enough and you’ll be forevermore reminded of missing the time.

In school and life, art and music are the things that are most worthwhile, yet they are the least we tend to devote time to and they are usually the first to be cut when budget crises arise.

Life, like school, has homework.  Tons of homework.  Contrary to what anyone might lead you to believe, no one actually likes homework.  People would much rather play with their friends or their toys or their friends’ toys.  Mowing the lawn, weeding, raking, painting, unclogging toilets, fixing leaking faucets, scrapping the goo from the bottom of the trash can is home work that must be completed before there’s any recess time.  And if you neglect your homework, you will not get credit.

Credit is what you get when you do well.  Doing home improvement projects get you lots of credit that can manifest itself in many was such as a night out with your friends.  Of course earning extra credit never hurts any either, and it’s readily available.  Flowers, a non-coerced back-rub or picking up your socks always earns points.  Ladies, try sitting through an entire NASCAR race with him without nodding off.  Gentleman, bring home a copy of “The Vow” and watch the entire movie with her without nodding off.  Remember, the more credit attained, the better the grade.

Like it or not, we are all graded on a daily basis.  If it isn’t an evaluation at work, it’s the neighbors looking at your porch that needs painting or the polite smile from someone crunching your tuna casserole.  But it’s not only your grades that take you to the head of the class.  To be successful, you must always be prepared:  Never go to a meeting without a writing instrument even if you have nothing to write down, it looks impressive; always do your math in pencil, as any accountant will tell you 2+2 does not always equal 4; always check your answers, even when you are one hundred percent right, you still may be wrong; take good notes, there is always a test afterwards; memorize your facts, corporate America loves trivia; spelling counts, especially names; don’t eat or chew gum while working, you’ll eventually get called on in mid-chew; and to let everyone know just how hard you are working, it is important to always show all your work unless, of course, you’re a lawyer.

It is societies principles that lead you through your daily schedules and guide you in the right direction, and trouble may send you right to the vices.  It’s all very much like Salisbury steak.

Salisbury steak appears regularly on school lunch menus.  The meal sounds regal enough for a king:  Salisbury steak -- a generous portion of prime tender meat smothered in thick, rich gravy.  However, as every graduate of public school knows, Salisbury steak is nothing but a hamburger with an identity crisis.  You can make the ground meat of your life into anything you want:  a loaf, patty, sloppy Joe, meatball or a steak.

And that, my dear young friends, is the essence of life:  Salisbury steak.

Thank you.

Metric Maleficence

Eight years ago saw the passing of an international hero.  Steve Thoburn, of Sunderland, England, died of a heart attack in March, 2004, at the age of 39. 

While most people probably never heard of Thoburn, his stand against a system forced upon millions of people in both the UK and here in America echoes many people’s beliefs. 

In 2001, Thoburn was prosecuted for selling fruits and vegetables in pounds and ounces when the European Union requires produce to be sold in metric units.

Fortunately, Thoburn’s spirit of aversion to the metric system carries on.

While standing in line for nearly twenty minutes while some guy in front of me was buying enough lottery tickets for the entire eastern seaboard, I contemplated my purchase.

Why was I buying a two-liter bottle of soda?  Why not a quart of milk or, for that matter, a half gallon of ice cream or a pound of American cheese?  Why not just a thirty or so once bottle of soda?  Why two liters?  What ever happened to the metric system anyway?

While we are only one of three countries in the world that measures out its highways in kilometers, it seems we still have miles to go.  Even though my car has a 1.3liter engine to cruise those highways, I still fill it with gallons of gas and keep my 13-inch tires filled with air at 32 pounds per square inch.

The metric system was first made compulsory in France in 1801.  It was first authorized for use here in the US in 1866 by an act of Congress, though the debate over our utilization of the metric system has been raging for nearly 200 years.

Back when I was in elementary school we were told that by the year 2000 everyone would be using the metric system exclusively.  The US Metric Conversion Act that was signed on December 23, 1975 declaring a national policy to encourage the voluntary use of the metric system prompted this metric exuberance. So, to prepare us for the measurable future, we were drilled in conversion:  inches to centimeters, pounds to grams, quarts to liters.  What made it even tougher was that even our parents couldn't help us with the homework because, much like kids and technology today, we knew more about the system than our parents. 

Some parents flat out refused to take the metric system seriously because they considered it un-American. 

Imagine a new-fangled Committee for Un-American Activities:  (In a smoky room with flashbulbs snapping all about):

Panel:  Is it true, sir, that on April 15, 2000, you asked for .45 kilograms of German bologna?  German bologna?  And you actually pronounced it bologna with the short “a” sound at the end and not baloney with the long “e”? 

Witness:  I respectfully exercise my constitutional right and not answer that question on the grounds that everybody will look at me funny, like I was French or something. 

Learning the metric system was always a problem because nothing else outside of school measured up in the same way.  Conversion to the metric system was not going to be so easy.

In September of 1999, even National Aeronautics Space Administration ran into its own little conversion problem. 

The Mars Climate Orbiter, valued at $125 million, was lost, tossed into the abyss of space or crashed and burned in the Martian atmosphere, when engineers failed to make a conversion between the metric system and the US system units (pounds, inches, feet, et. al.).  "I can only say," one of the project scientists said, "it served the United States right for not converting to the metric system decades ago."  Served us right?  Economically, politically, financially and militarily the strong-arm of the world and they're going to get us on weights and measures?

Why is it that illegal drug dealers work so successfully with grams and kilos as well as pounds and ounces, easily converting constantly between the two systems, but it's a challenge for a rocket scientist?

It is time for the world to realize that our system of measurement is indefatigable because it is quintessentially American.  It's no accident that the United States is one of the only countries in the world not totally committed to adopting the metric system.  Rugged defiance of global influence and shrewd isolationism are representative of the American spirit.  What else than good ol' American determination can fathom (6 feet) measurements like the rod (16.5 feet) or the pole (5.5 yards) or the peck (2 gallons) or the pace (2.5 feet) or the gill (half a cup) or the hogshead (63 gallons)?

America will keep her measures just as she pleases.  She will not bend to the torrents of international pressures.  Her scales of justice will tip left and right with ounces and pounds; her quantities of milk and honey will flow in pints, quarts and gallons; her rulers will hold its inches to a foot.  And remember what Thomas Jefferson said:  People get the rulers they deserve.

What Education Reformers Tend to Overlook

I teach high school in Camden, New Jersey — cited, yet again, as the second most dangerous city in the nation.

"I could never work where you do," this guy said to me at a social gathering I attended not very long ago. It was a friend of a friend who had been teaching in a suburban school district for over twenty years and whom I had just met. There were several teachers at this party because we teachers, like fish, tend to travel in schools (I hear the groan from here!). "Why not?" I asked. He looked at me as though the answer was obvious. "It's Camden," he said chuckling.

"And...?" I said.

He looked around the five of us who were standing in the kitchen. He was looking for help and wasn't getting any. Then, in a more serious tone, he said, "Well, being white..."

"Being white?" I said as if I misheard.

"Yeah. Being white I couldn't tell the kids, you know, what to do," he said.

"Why not?" I said.

"They're not going to listen to some white guy," he said.

I looked at my own complexion and then back at my acquaintance. "That has never been an issue for me," I said.

"But I hear the pay is good," he said as if I hadn't just addressed his last point. He was a classic overtalker, someone who will keep yapping with little regard to anything anyone else says. "Combat pay, that's what you guys get, combat pay." Was this attitude why inner city schools are plagued with such teacher turnover problems? Do people really believe you need to be a certain race to be effective with a certain population? And if that's so, do they also believe the inverse is true? Was this irrational and ignorant fear, subtle racism or inherent guilt?

"The idea that inner city teachers make more money than teachers in the suburbs is ludicrous," I said.

"Look at test scores," he overtalked. "They're always lower in the inner city. You know why? Because the kids are so bad that these schools have to waste money on higher salaries, combat pay."

"Combat pay is a myth! And you want to talk test scores?" I said. "On a practice assessment test once supplied by the state, the writing prompt for the persuasive writing section begins with a scenario: After a soccer championship, the fans, in celebration, charge the field and many cut pieces of the goal nets to take as souvenirs leaving the nets as tattered threads. The principal, so it goes, says that the money for the repair of the goals will come from all the school's clubs. The task is to write a letter to the board of education agreeing or disagreeing with this decision," I said in a single breath.

"Yeah? So?" He said.

"Soccer isn't exactly a big sport in the inner city. But in the suburbs..." I let my voice trail off.

"Doesn't matter," he began. "A test is a test is a test. The state standardized tests are the only way to measure achievement across the board."

"It's only one way," I said.

"It's the only one that counts," he said. "And all kids have the same opportunity to pass. These kids just don't take the opportunities that come their way."

"I'll grant you that there are inner city kids who live up to the expectation society and the suburbs have put upon them, but in no way do these kids all have the same educational opportunities. There are kids who have to care for their siblings because a single parent is off working her second or even third job. Others aren't sure if there will be a meal when they get home. Many walk the streets in fear and live in houses with bars on the windows to protect what little they have. Many do not have a desk with ample light and parents who have gone to college, parents whose parents have gone to college standing close by to help them with their homework. The opportunities are as far apart as their economic status," I said.

"Aw, you're just rationalizing because your test scores aren't as good as the suburbs," he said.

"You know what real school reform would be? Maybe school districts shouldn't hire teachers. Maybe the state should. Then a teacher could work at one school for a few years and then be transferred to another for a few more years and so on. Then a teacher could work in both the more wealthy suburbs and the inner cities putting their real teaching skills to the test. If a teacher can get high test scores from their students in the most affluent districts, let's see those same teachers do it in the least," I said.

This friend of a friend sipped his drink and looked at me and chuckled, "A lot of teachers think like you when they first start teaching. Don't worry; you'll get like the rest of us. You'll grow out of it," he said.

"That's funny," I responded. "Teachers have been telling me that for years."

Odyssey of the Playground

In his famous journey, Homer’s Odysseus had to suffer and prevail over great challenges both mental and physical before he could finally return home.  With the help of his guardian from Mt. Olympus, the goddess Athena, Odysseus was able to escape the eye of Cyclops and the voices of the Sirens.  Of all the hardships, however, the hero of the Odyssey never had to endure anything as arduous as the elementary playground at recess. 

My son once came home from school complaining that one of his classmates had annoyed him during recess by constantly inflicting a “spider hold” on him.  A spider hold, I deducted by his description and rather annoying demonstration, is sort of like that Vulcan knock-out pinch to the neck that Mr. Spock did on Star Trek to those who annoyed him.  My son told me that all the kids were constantly giving each other the “spider hold,” but he found it ridiculous and, frankly, somewhat uncomfortable.

My heart went out to him.  I remember those seemingly innocent albeit slightly injurious rites of passage in the schoolyard.

“Hey, Chester!”  Wham!  A full force blow to the upper body.  “It’s good to see you back.”  Whomp!  A breath-taking slug to the back.  There were others.

I dreaded Tuesdays.  In my school it was referred to as “Toes-day.”  On this particular day, someone would walk up to you and stomp his foot down on yours as hard as he could.  I would wake up the next morning with mixed feelings.  Yes, I had survived another “Toes-day,” but now it was “Weddings-day,” a day wrought not only with physical pain, but emotionally scarring as well.  On “Weddings-day” the nuptials were performed by a blind-sided shove that made you go flying into the nearest girl, preferably one in need of a good emollient.  Any contact constituted marital bliss. 

Painful though these were, it was merely the light stuff, the work of the underlings. 

Those who perpetrated these little annoyances were the imbecilic henchmen to the archenemy that was Gunter; six feet forever to my four foot whatnot, Gunter was the bully’s bully.  Gunter had been left back so many times that he had his own parking spot.  Gunter was so mean that he’d step on your toes and push you into girls on any day of the week.

Gunter had it out for me.  Mostly everyday during sixth grade I was either tripped, noogied, Indian burned, Charlie horsed, ear flicked, or just plain punched by sasquatchian kid.  I had no idea why until one day when he was caught red handed, that is, he had me in a headlock grimacing in pain when a teacher walked up.  The teacher told Gunter to stop pummeling me.  “But he’s wearing Bo-bos,” he said about my sneakers with the tell tale “BB” on the sole.  “That’s stands for basketball,” I said from inside Gunter’s elbow, repeating the words of my mother.  Even the band kids laughed.

According to a study in the Journal of the American Medical Association, approximately one-third of school children have been bullied or have participated in bullying by the time they are in high school.  Unfortunately, children learn to tolerate these unwarranted assaults as a means of self-preservation.  It’s the classic catch-22:  If a child complains, he is ridiculed by his peers or he may incite the bully to take even more violent actions.  Telling a teacher is completely out of the question.  The code of ethics among school children wading their way through playground politics is clear on this one.

In this age where schools are installing metal detectors, completing random locker checks, practicing lockdown drills where students stand in a darkened classroom against a wall so that the classroom will appear unoccupied to a gunman in the hallway, implementing and enforcing zero tolerance policies, and completing volumes of paperwork when bullying is reported, some abusive behaviors are still being over looked and even encouraged in schools by those who still believe in the antiquated adage that boys will be boys. 

A simple punch in the arm my look innocent enough; however, accepting even the slightest nudge could be a sign of something far worse.

Holly Jolly Holiday Final

This time of year always reminds me of that great feeling of finishing that last fall semester final.  Regardless of the outcome, the cessation of academic stress is gratefully replaced by the sensation of holiday stress and a few weeks of time found.

I’m thinking about finals because I’ve just heard on the radio Burl Ives’ rendition of “Holly Jolly Christmas."  Whenever I hear that song, I cannot help but think about my biology final at Atlantic Cape Community College in southern New Jersey because the professor looked just like Burl Ives, though, to tell the truth, he resembled more the snowman on Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

I dreaded my biology final.  Every time I’d try to study for it, I would easily find more a more pressing activity like cutting my toenails.  It wasn’t that I disliked the course; I just wasn’t into it.  What made it even worse for me was the professor seemed to take the approach that everyone in the class was destined for a career in medicine or some sort of scientific hodge-podge which couldn’t have been further from my own aspirations.  Science has never been a favorite subject of mine.  I would much rather dissect fiction than frogs. 

The morning of my biology final I woke up with a high fever.  I had two finals scheduled for that day:  Psychology of Adolescence/Adulthood and Biology of Our World, and I thought I would have been fine if I could only stop shivering.  I popped a couple of Tylenol and drove to campus.

Midway through my Psych final my chest began burning with every inhale, I struggled to hold back coughs, and the little dots on the Scan-Tron form started moving around in dizzying swirling patterns.  I randomly filled in the last five questions to put an end to the misery.  But I still had a second exam in a half an hour.  When I broke into uncontrollable fits of coughing, I realized I had little choice.

I walked into my professor’s office and explained to him my situation.  Keeping to the other side of his desk, he jotted down his home phone number and told me to call him as soon as I felt better.

Four days later, two days before Christmas, I called him expecting to schedule a make-up exam for sometime during the first week of the spring semester.  Instead he asked me what I was doing that afternoon and gave me directions to his home.

At his front door, I held out a doctor’s note, written evidence of my bronchitis, but he only smiled, bid me entrance and led me into his kitchen.  The house was decorated for the holiday for both sight and smell.  Hints of cinnamon and nutmeg lingered about boughs of garland, laurel and holly.

The professor offered me a seat at the table and asked if I liked mulled cider.  I confessed that I had never tasted it.  Cider was only served cold in my house, I told him.  He smiled again, walked over to the counter and lifted the lid off of a crock-pot.  What I had taken for a scented candle when I entered the house was actually the aroma emanating from this potion.  He placed an oversized coffee mug in front of me and then handed me a stapled packet of papers.  Enjoy, he said and then left the room.

I reached maybe the third question when his wife walked into the kitchen, placed a plate of holiday cookies and some napkins on the table, said she had some last minute shopping to do, wished me luck, and left the room.  For the next hour and a half I worked on the exam interrupted only once when my professor refilled my cup and told me to help myself to more if I so desired.

When I was done, I took my test into his living room.  The professor was sitting in an easy chair reading a book next to a Franklin Stove with doors ajar enough to show a glowing flame.  The whole scene seemed almost too cliché to me, and yet there it was. 

I thanked my professor for his trouble.  He insisted that it was his pleasure, and he wished me a merry Christmas. 

On my drive home “Holly Jolly Christmas” came on the radio. 

Maybe it was the fact that what I presumed as a stogy science professor treated an undergrad in a gen-ed class with empathy and genuine kindness that had made a life-long impression on me, or maybe it was the image of the snowman that told me the story of Rudolph every year of my life sipping a mug of mulled cider, nibbling on a Christmas cookie and grading my exam because without any degree of certainty, I couldn’t name one thing that was on that test. 

They Don't Call It a Number Two for Nothing

Every great society throughout history has had its vulnerabilities.  The Trojans had their horse.  The Romans had their hedonistic excesses.  The Russians had their inequality of classes and the French had all their heavy sauces and thick creamy pastries.  It seems that one of America's vulnerabilities has been under our noses all along, but no one seemed to notice:  the number 2 pencil.

The first writing implement handed to a child is generally the crayon -- that colorful extension of an unbridled imagination and that great waxy smell.  With the crayon the sky can be green, grass can be purple and smiles can be larger than the faces that hold them.  Maybe people would be a little happier if they colored at least once or twice a week.  It's fun.  And don't worry about staying within the lines.  Too many people get hung up on coloring within the lines.  A teacher once told my parents that I had trouble coloring in the lines, but my original artwork was brilliant.

The first pencil most kids use is that thick blue one that makes those wonderfully broad soft lines on green paper with the wide spaces between the lines for big capital letters and numbers.  Suddenly the child's work is grayed a little and the lines within which they colored have become rigid and taught and highly structured so the letter "E" will always and forever have only three lines sticking out of one and not four or five or eight.  This shift from creative openness to unbending lines will, to many, be associated with the pencil.

Without warning the thick blue pencil that felt like something of substance in your hand is ripped away.  The child is told that it is now pass to use big blue.  I have even teachers "actively ignore" kids ridiculing their peers for holding onto the big blue pencil.  Now it is the thin, mousy yellow number two that is introduced.  And like a virus, it grows into the consciousness of society that this by which you will be tried, assessed, judged, measured, quantified, discriminated, condemned.

Thanks to the “No Child Left Behind” act, by third grade the number two pencil is used for the standardized test that will assess little more than the ability of an eight or nine year old to take a test.  It begins the conditioning process that fools our society into believing that standardized tests actually reflect knowledge and predict future academic success.

If it wasn't for the number two pencil, our school curriculums wouldn't be destroyed by being "aligned" to state and national tests.  By changing curriculums to what is being tested sends the message that anything taught that is not covered on the state tests is irrelevant and unimportant. 

If it wasn't for the number two pencil, kids who have vision and drive, but were not lucky enough to live in an affluent area where schools could afford to give them enrichment classes on the tricks to taking standardized tests, could get into better colleges.

If it wasn't for the number two pencil, people could be judged on ability and authentic knowledge and aptitude and not word games and numbers play.

The day I see a standard child is the day I will agree that standardized tests are good for more than just keeping testing services in business, school administrators in excuses and the less fortunate in repression.

The more we rely on the number two, the less likely we will be to find number one.

Extreme Makeover: Writing Edition, or Out, Damned Jot!

“Behold where stands the usurper’s cursed head,” Macduff shouts, holding high the severed head of Macbeth.

The play’s end brought a few sighs from the class, some perhaps for the impeding test and others, I am certain, out of sheer relief.

Sitting in traffic on the way home I keep thinking about Macbeth.  We had had a good time with the play.  We acted out some scenes, translated other scenes into modern teen vernacular language, discussed contemporary political examples of ambition gone amuck, and tragic heroes.  But we ended the play with a sigh. 

I didn’t want them to leave Shakespeare fatigued, I thought as I flipped through the one hundred plus channels, my shoeless feet up on the coffee table. I wanted them energized.  I wanted them feeling like I did when I was in high school and walked out of the movie theatre after seeing Raiders of the Lost Ark for the first time.  I wanted them feeling energized, inspired, like they could take over the world. 

By the third time passing Judge Judy lambasting a man about something he should or should not have done – I really couldn’t tell the which – I shut off the TV and tossed the remote aside marveling at how popular and numerous these court shows were:  Judge Judy, Judge Mathis, Judge Hatchett, Judge Joe Brown, and so on and so on. 

That was it! 

I grabbed the remote and turned the television back on.  The screen was nothing but a big blue dot which happens when you turn my TV off and then right back on again.  I’d have to shut it off and wait at least ten minutes for a clear picture, just enough time to run to the kitchen to get a before dinner snack. 

With some cheddar cheese and crackers I watched plaintiffs and defendants give testimonies and argue evidence, and judges render decisions.  Yes, that was it.  I would put Macbeth on trial; we’ll have our very own Judge Juliet in the classroom.

The next day we started class discussing the variety of court/judge/law television shows that were out there.  They were all eager to tell stories of episodes they’ve seen.  We then discussed the parameters for the activity:  Students will be assigned the role of a specific character.  They will have to carefully read and analyze that particular character’s role in the play and develop notes on what they would say if called to be a witness, material, character or otherwise.  We also created prosecution and defense teams.  The students enthusiastically took to their task.

As I watched the students delve back into the play with purpose, I wondered how I could apply this – using popular culture as classroom motivation – to writing tasks.  Not the fun kind of writing where we can be wildly expressive and creative, but the kind of writing students and teachers abhor:  standardized test on-demand writing.

So it was back to the TV, first stop:  MTV.  As I watched I pined for the days when MTV actually showed music videos.  Nowadays it seems that students watch more videos on the Internet than they do on television.

Off to the web I went, and after watching videos by the likes of Alicia Keys, Daddy Yankee, Beyonce, Nickelback, and the like, I had a plan.  I went out and bought a DVD of music videos, put it in my computer, and was able to print a still shot from somewhere around the middle of the video.

I showed a video to my class.  We discussed the narrative structure of the video – there was a beginning, a middle, and an end; characters were introduced; there was a problem; attempts to solve the problem; and finally a resolution.  I then handed out a still shot from the video.  We talked about at what point in the video the still shot came from, what had happened before the still shot, and what had happened after.  Then I asked them to write out the story of the video.  I then handed them a still shot from the middle of another video and asked them to write out the narrative they way they imagined it.  After which we watched the video.  This activity gave them another approach to the narrative picture prompt and really motivated them to write.

One of the most challenging aspects of writing for students seems to be revision.  Once a piece it done, it’s done.  Many students greet the idea of revision with, “Just tell me what’s wrong with it, and I’ll fix it.”  I explain to them how revision does not necessarily imply error.  We’re looking to improve on what is already good.  This response more times than not leads to suspicious looks that says Mr. Johnson just wants us to do more work.

“You’ve been watching an awful lot of television lately,” my wife said to me.  I don’t normally watch television on Sunday nights, which are generally reserved for some lesson planning, reading or writing.

“I’m doing research,” I told her.  This response led to suspicious looks that said Mr. Johnson wants to be a couch potato.

But I had found my answer.

I video taped an episode of Extreme Makeover:  Home Edition.  I took it into class and we watched a good portion of the show zapping away the commercials.  We discussed the roles of each person on the makeover team, how each had his or her own personal responsibility, how each was an expert in his or her field.

Here’s what we do.  Students are placed in groups.  Each group is assigned a particular component to revising a piece of writing:  use of rhetoric, attention to form, grammatical structures, supporting details, etc.  The members of the group then become “experts” at their topic through collective research so that each member comes out with identical information. 

The class then gets broken up into new groups made up the various “experts.”  One member of each team is named project coordinator and serves not only as the expert in the writing component he or she was trained in, but also as project coordinator which requires high energy cheerleading. 

We choose one student essay that is in need of improvement and make copies for each group.  The students are given one class period to completely renovate the essay.  The next day in class, with a document camera and an LCD projector, we have the unveiling of the renovated…I mean revised essay.  Each member of the team explains what changes were made and why they were made.  Each group gets a turn.  It is amazing how by the end of the class the students are debating each other on whose opening was most effective, whose transitions worked better, whose closings had the most impact.  It’s a beautiful thing.

For many teachers like me, reflection is incessant.  We can hardly go to a movie, listen to the radio, read a book, or watch TV without thinking how we can incorporate that experience into our classrooms to help further motivate students to challenge themselves, to learn, to achieve.

Oh, by the way, my class acquitted Macbeth.  They felt that the witches, who were being naughty messing around with Macbeth in the first place, had cast a spell that completely controlled the general’s behavior.  That, coupled with Lady Macbeth’s insanity which they found traces of even from the start of the play, was enough to cause a shadow of a doubt.