The Answer

Why do I take night classes?

That was the title of this blog; thinking way back to the beginning of school I remember being vastly intimidated by a 7-9:30 PM Monday time slot and I thought I was being funny when I came up with this post (although now it seems like I was being some kind of smart ass).

I've learned a lot in Approaches and I am very glad for the experiences this class has given me. It has taught me many things: how to write a memoir, how to better workshop, and how to release the fears of student writers, just to name a few.

Even more importantly, I've cherished the community our classroom has created, and I will miss the individuals that made our group what it was. (Don't get me wrong, I am so very much looking forward to the end of the semester and Christmas, but the class was fun).

I wish everyone good luck on all their future endeavors, especially to those who are going to be teaching writing in their future careers. I hope we can all remain in touch to provide support and friendship to one another in the future.

Why do I take night classes?

Oh yeah, it's because I have to. The College of Education has so many of them.

Have a good break

Alex Rummelhart

Hunger Games

So I celebrated my birthday over the break and as a treat, the family got together and went to Barnes and Noble to go on a book buying spree. I just love book stores and I was eagerly browsing around (I could wander in those places for hours) when I spotted the title Hunger Games amongst the teen best sellers. I had heard my practicum students talking about it and I decided that it would be teacherly of me to pick up a copy, in order to read it and be able to better to relate to them. My plan was to deal with some teen reading, analyze it a little bit, see what could be useful from it, and then move on.

I was surprised first off by how awesome it was. I finished the book in less than a day and then promptly began eating into the next two in the trilogy. Great story idea, magnificent details, and solid writing kept pushing me onward and onward. No wonder everyone at school loved it so.

My initial point is only enhanced by the greatness of the book. Now, not only can I relate and understand what the kids are talking about, but I can genuinely agree with their love for the novel.

I think both these concepts are important. First, it is wise to be aware of what is popular amongst the youth of the world (it is a bit frightening that I am not apart of the "youth" group). The more we understand, and are able to relate, the more we can connect with the students. And in my opinion, establishing a personal relationship is the #1 most important facet in creating a classroom environment conducive to learning. It trumps all other facets; kids simply learn, respond, and behave better when there is a good relationship.

Secondly, if you dive in, you might discover something new and original.. something that you genuinely love, and are able to make a part of you and your teaching style.

I highly recommend Hunger Games and the subsequent books

Alex Rummelhart

Last Week

Not only is this the last week before Thanksgiving break (thank goodness) but it is also the last week of my practicum experience.

For those of you that don't know, I have been spending my mornings as Mr. Rummelhart inside Iowa City West High School's AP English classrooms. I figured I would take a post to reflect on this experience.

Man, it has been so invaluable! Nothing can compare to the actual act of teaching, or helping to teach, a class full of young minds. I have been especially lucky because my kids were- for the most part- eager, intelligent, and interested in English as a subject.

Overall, I'm reminded of our partnerships and I'm very glad that we got involved in them. You simply cannot compare "learning to teach" with "teaching", nor can you compare "talking about young adults' writing" with "writing with young adults".

The College of Education provides many classes were I can truly learn a lot, but more importantly they provide me hands on experience, where I can truly use my skills with others, and that I think is the most important thing. I just want to focus on that fact- on the importance of constantly getting out there and actually doing what is so often just talked about.

Hope everyone's week isn't as hectic and tiring as mine is.

Cheers,

Alex Rummelhart

One Page Autobiography

This is an early draft of my one pager bio for our writing partnership. I could really use some feedback, because I wrote it off a sort of weird idea and I'm not sure whether it works or not. Please let me know what you think:

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See that kid? No, not that guy, the other one. The white one. The one with the shaggy brown hair. The average looking dude, you see, not too tall, not too fat. Yeah there you go. That guy. See how he walks around. Look at the clothes he wears. Watch what he does. Watch carefully. See him. Know him. Judge him.

There he goes with a tie , nice shoes, dress pants, a bunch of papers. He’s wearing glasses. He’s going to class. He’s got some class. Lookin’ all studious, with his pondering, and his wondering, and his reading. Got his nose in a book or a book in his nose, not really caring if he spills coffee on his clothes. And he’s just learning and teaching all of the time. Watch him go to school, watch him watch the students of the world. What is he? Who is he? He some kind of scholar? He’s wearing that tight collar. He some kind of nerd?

But there he goes again. Different day, different style. He’s wearing sandals, and his hair’s unkempt. It’s long and messy, and it gets in his eyes, and he’s listening to music, and off watching the skies, in his own little world, his own little bubble, I can see it in his eyes, this kid’s gonna be trouble. A nuisance, a rebel, not going to listen to the authority, not going to do as he’s told. He’s biking everywhere, and sitting in the grass, and sticking his feet in the water, and just doing nothing. Tossing a frisbee around hah! Nothing but talking with other young hippies with their own long hair and their own ideals. He’s fighting for something, you can tell. You just know he’s got some cause, some righteous struggle in him that makes him think he can change the world. Like he can change anything. Like he’s got any power. Just look at him, just see how useless it all is, just watch him. You know what he does. You know he’s one of those damn free spirited weirdoes- the ones that hang around in coffee shops or in the parks, or are out there protesting and making a fuss. He’s one of them.

But what’s this now? Our boy runnin’ and jumpin’ and playing football? He’s sprinting down the sidewalk, running up that hill, once, twice, ten times, just look at him fly. Here he’s playin’ basketball, now what’s up with that? Playing baseball too, heck he ain’t bad. He’s quick. He’s got fire and determination in him. This kid won’t quit. He’s out there in the rain, in the wind, in the cold and the snow, every day he’s running and running and running, out on the go. He’s shaping that body, he’s strong. A bit on the scrawnier side, but strong all the same, and hella fast. What’s he doin? Watching ESPN, seeing the game, talking ‘bout the sport, now what’s he doing that for? He some kind of athlete? He some kind of sportsman?

Now watch him write. See his pen fly across the page. See his fingers fly across the keyboard. He’s doing this all the time. In fact it’s the one constant. The one thing that won’t change. He’s always scribbling something down, always got an idea in his hand, a dream in his head. Why won’t he just quit? Why won’t he just give it a rest?

Who is this fellow? You’ve seen him, you know what he does. You know his clothes, his style, his job, his struggle, his school, and his home. You know his actions. His reactions. Who is he? Is he what he does? Is he what he likes? Is he what he says? Is he who he hangs out with?

Or is he what he writes? Look on to that page. Can that even describe him? Those words there come from his head and his heart, come from his very soul. That is who he is. He is his poetry. He is his prose. He is his passion.

But he still can’t be defined. He still can’t be categorized or stereotyped or wrapped up in a neat little box. He’s still indefatigable. He’s unstoppable. Unnamable, untamable. He’s unique.

Grammar

Grammar has long been my enemy. I was just never a fan of it. In my opinion it was a tool with which to express myself (the screw for building stories or papers, while the words themselves were the screwdriver). Yes the rules of grammar were important, but as long as I could express myself, in the end just communicate effectively, then I didn't care much whether I used contractions, (or parentheses), or the word "I" quite a bit. English was what we made it- not what some dead guy thought of it.

These days my perceptions have changed slightly, but my basic point remains: grammar should be secondary to fluency and creativity.

So how do I incorporate grammar into my teaching, while conveying this important belief? Is grammar something for elementary school students only or are we expected to teach it in secondary?

The readings for this week have touched on the many rules, on the misconceptions, and on the overall scope of grammar. But the questions remain. And I really can't find any answers.

Simply put, where is grammar's place in English?

Why do you want to be a teacher?

Recently in my Practicum class, we were asked to write professional statements, in preparation for future interviews and the like. The first part of it contained a section titled “Why do you want to be a teacher?

A dozens of reasons ran through my head- everything from good hours, to decent benefits, to receiving money in general, to getting the summers off... I'm reminded of that quote from the Breakfast Club "You took a teaching position, 'cause you thought it'd be fun, right? Thought you could have summer vacations off...and then you found out it was actually work...and that really bummed you out."

But of course these weren’t the real reasons- and as I began to seriously ponder, I traced back my path to this unique profession. Below, I include the first part of this professional statement and I encourage others to think over the same concept seriously, as it is the most basic and yet important question: Why?

Why I chose teaching as a career:

What do you want to be when you grow up? This question dominates the mind of every child in America and I was no different than any of the rest. We were taught, from a very young age, that we could achieve absolutely anything if we set our minds to it. But what should we achieve? What should our lives be about? The choices were all exciting, each profession amazing in their challenges and rewards- to be a movie star, a professional athlete, an astronaut, the President.

But after a while, the glamour began to fade as I thought of the reality. I pondered the uncertain future and took a deep hard look at each and every dream, unable to decide. I did what any other student did, I took the tests, I tried different things, I examined my strengths. What was I good at? What did I love?

I enjoyed many things, but reading and writing were on the top of the list. But I thought that there could never be an instance when I could take this love and make money off of it. I didn’t dare hope that my meager writing would ever be published in any way. And I couldn’t just spend my life analyzing good literature could I?

Only in the summer after my senior year did I realize that I could indeed… I could become a teacher. It was a position that was so often belittled and dismissed as unimportant or boring. It had certainly been ignored for the longest time by me. I will admit that I had never considered it before. It was something so common, so difficult, so unexciting.

Yet it was also something amazing. The more I thought, the more I realized how much I loved school and had enjoyed time within it. It dawned on me that I genuinely enjoyed teaching others- everything from the rules of Ultimate Frisbee to the order of Die Hard movies (arranged by best one-liners of course). I would love instructing the youth of the world about reading and writing. It may not have been the glamorous choice. It may have made my friends smirk every time I told them I wanted to be a high school English teacher. And of course, it may have ensured that I will be underpaid for the rest of my life. But by becoming a teacher, I will be performing a service. I will be acting as an advocate and guide. And I will genuinely enjoy being there for the youths of the world, leading them toward their own dreams, facing all the challenges that come with this task and reaping all the rewards that come from knowing you made a difference.

A slice of my draft

I decided to follow the advice of our fellow peers and post the opening to my latest draft. Let me know what you think:

A Writing Memory

My earliest memories are of stories. Many of these cherished tales were read to me by my parents- they would snuggle with my brother and I upstairs in their big bed, reading Doctor Seuss or Grimm’s Fairy Tales aloud to us in those precious minutes before bedtime. Other memories of stories, however, would come from a different source. They would be of my mind and my imagination- of the adventures and characters I created.

Of course, I was five or six at the time, a wild creature, barely into my schooling, and so it was not an entirely lonesome endeavor to create these tales. I did all the hard work; most of the real action would take place inside my head throughout the day. There would be battles with imaginary monsters, a discovery of hidden treasure, an induction into the ranks of my favorite superheroes, or simply an exploration to a mysterious land. These were the busy imaginings of an active little boy, hardly unusual, and not really concrete. But every night, writing would take place because the setting down of all these stories, the wonderful happenings of my head, would come through the help of my parents.

After dinner each night, I would drag them to the basement and push them toward the computer. That little subterranean space was such a mess; there was the bar that my dad turned into a work station for his various hobbies, smelling of paint, metal, and freshly cut wood. A narrow space next to it was filled with all the kids’ junk- old Halloween costumes, toys, and blankets. Ringing the space were shelves upon shelves, each filled with CD’s and books- all stacked so haphazardly that it was unusual if one of the piles didn’t crash to the ground thunderously each night. Buried amidst it all, in the darkest, most cluttered corner of the room was this big computer, huge even back then, an old Window’s ’95: gigantic and boxy, tucked away into a snug little place. This piece of ancient technology was more than just a machine, it was the symbol of power; it had the ability to make the imaginary come to life, to turn something silly and simple into a living thing, to turn the pretend into the real. I would sit on my parents’ laps or at a tall stool and dictate my stories to them as though I were Pharaoh laying down edicts with imperial authority.