The Sampost

Show

2011-08-01T10:34:00.000-07:00

- Own Themselves -

"Humankind lingers unregenerately in Plato's cave, still reveling, its age-old habit, in mere images of the truth. But being educated by photographs is not like being educated by older, more artisanal images. For one thing, there are a great many more images around, claiming our attention. The inventory started in 1839 and since then just about everything has been photographed, or so it seems. This very insatiability of the photographing eye changes the terms of confinement in the cave, our world. In teaching us a new visual code, photographs alter and enlarge our notions of what is worth looking at and what we have a right to observe. They are a grammar and, even more importantly, an ethics of seeing. Finally, the most grandiose result of the photographic enterprise is to give us the sense that we can hold the whole world in our heads -- as an anthology of images."
-Susan Sontag, On Photography.

I wanted this rather long excerpt to serve as the preface for this show because I believe it to be a compelling argument for photography, a medium that I struggle to accept as art. I am persuaded by and drawn to images, but I'm not sure if I can take full credit for any object of my camera. Everything is there, and the machine simply captures it. I can take an interesting photo of an industrial landscape or of my friends at a party, but only because they are interesting, with or without my camera. In this show, you will see a collection of moments or things that I've seen--but I don't claim responsibility or ownership of any of them. The moments and things own themselves. Thank you for attending.

Sunny Baby Blue You

2011-01-03T18:14:00.000-08:00

You shouldn't sit so far away
On such a sunny day
We all know how our time can pass
Relaxin in the shade
I've shown to you my better side
And I'd never lie for love
Especially when its in between,
Below us and above.

The high blue sky is beautiful
Reflecting in your eyes
I want to fly inside of them
And I wish you'd let me try
'Cuz ever since I met you, honey,
It's funny to be alone
I've traveled from a distant land
And finally found my home.

And all I ever needed
I can see it in your face,
The look of your expressions,
And the setting of this place.
The comfort of the shade,
My babe, I'm glad that you could come,
To sit right here beside me
For the setting of the sun.

At the Museum

2010-12-28T05:19:00.001-08:00

Beginning in still lines and waiting
until finally filing into escalators
of black congruent steps
that lift the lines into other levels
where structure is less important
and groups disperse into other groups
until the lines are only individual dots
that hurry about and busy themselves
with distractions which took years
to create and now get passed
with the slightest degree of appreciation
or regard and every single dot wants
to be here and feel here and see here
and be seen here but hardly any
wants to sacrifice their private
charade and create something
worth more than what is
immediate. And stop taking
photos of the damn Picassos!

It Was Mine!

2010-12-07T15:49:00.000-08:00

We sat outside on the rooftop and balanced empty beer cans on spinning ventilation ducts. In the distance, the skyline seemed at eye level and I was surrounded by great people- people I knew before formally knowing them. Before flesh, there were walls, trains, alleyways, sketchbooks. We laughed and moved fluently from simple, everyday conversations to the spontaneous moments of collective insight that happen when people get drunk together.
Three stories below, the streets are filled with drunk men and women, most are wearing cute little outfits and struggling to remember where they parked their cars. From the edge of the roof, you could see cop cars strategically placed throughout the area, waiting like hungry sharks at the fat people beach. Like many other nights in Northeast Minneapolis, they ate well that night.
I looked around at the rocks that blanketed the rooftop; what a test of self-control. Everything in the vicinity-- the drunk people below, the cop cars, the skinny alleyway cat stalking from shadow to shadow--everything seems like the perfect target for an excited drunk, especially ones that are entertained by spinning beer cans on ventilation ducts. At most of these rag tag rooftop parties, someone is bound to eventually give in, but surprisingly, no one did. Instead, someone came up with a safer idea- throwing the rocks at the beer cans that were somehow still spinning. A cheer erupted when the can was finally hit, head on, with a fiery crack of accuracy. Of course, everyone claimed it was their rock.

Campfire Reflections

2010-12-07T12:01:00.001-08:00

Sitting alone,
Watching the embers of an evening fire die
With the northern wind coming across the lake,
My mind stirs deep reflections that surface slow,
Like bubbles waiting for the ice to melt.

I hear the calling of a cold owl,
The cry of distant wolves,
And the reluctant shift of tall timbers.
This is where I came from- the dry pine needles,
The patches of moss, and the campfire.

Twenty feet above,
Shadows are projected onto the pine trees
And glints of ash rise in circles until finally
Falling without illumination and becoming lost
To what is.

Last Thoughts on Michael Larson

2010-10-25T13:15:00.001-07:00

The following is a piece I wrote over the past couple of weeks, an homage to Michael Larson, A.K.A. Eyedea, who passed away on October 16th, 2010. This person was someone I looked up to, someone who held a lot of influence in my life... someone whose work stayed with me and grew around my soul like a vine around a Century fence, know what I mean? For those who haven't heard much of his music, I encourage you to buy an album or two of his, in particular "The Many Faces of Oliver Hart," "First Born," and his latest release, "By The Throat."

For my homage, I chose to write a pastiche, which is a literary form in which you imitate another writer's style. I am imitating a poem Bob Dylan wrote and performed for Woody Guthrie when Woody was sick in the hospital... You can listen to it here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NVbr0y8zp68

Although I still want to continue working on this (because I'm not entirely satisfied with it) I realize there's point when you have to let things go, even if you still think you can make it better. Far too often, with projects I undertake, I never finish them because I start something else or lose interest.. This leaves me with a lot of cool stuff that's only half complete. Anyways- with this, I know it helped me channel my emotions and work out some rather difficult kinks in my mind.. I hope you find a little truth in it...

Last Thoughts on Michael Larson

What can you do when the wind blows hard

'Til your face can't feel it and your hope's gone far,

When the words fall short or they barely imitate

All the complex emotions that you're tryin' to convey,

When the lights grow dark, and they leave the streets alone

Or when you missed the last train that woulda took ya straight home,

When the traffics too thick or a book is too short,

Or when you've gone downtown to face another round of court,

When your caught with your guard down, or your lips are too loose,

When rain falls in buckets and it beats through your roof,
Or when the scenes not the same as it was awhile back,

And your feet have turned left and walked right off track,

And your packs about empty, or your bag is all sticks,

And every feather hits ya with the weight of ten bricks,

When the coffee won't do it, and the beer won't either,

When your ex is with him every time that you see her,

Or when the kids seem selfish, and you begin to feel hopeless,
And when the things that you buy tend to blur out your focus,
When the comets stop comin' and the blue moon hides,

When you're tired, out late and still miss the sunrise,

When your back starts achin' or the needle finds a rut,

And you don't have the heart to quite go with your gut,

And the ceiling fan stops and the air settles down,
And its so damn hot that you curl up on the ground,

And you wonder to yourself... You ask you some questions-

Like, "How do I respond to all the shit that I'm test with?

Where do I move it? What can I tell them?"

Your winds knocked out so you wheeze instead of yellin',
And you gotta keep trying 'cause you're scared of sayin' quit,
'Cause you know every road has a hole, a little dip,
But the doubts still in you, and its weight feels tall,
Pulls you in between desires like the first snowfall,
And it seems mixed up in a dark shade of blue
With tight tangled knots like a little kid's shoe
And your mood won't mend with any headache potion,
Your skin won't smooth with any calamine lotion,
No matter how much you save or got comin' in a check,
What pattern that you wear or which chains on your neck,
It will not disconnect, keeps followin' you around,
In the morning, afternoon, and on the other side of town,
You feel stuck real good, just stuck in your place,
And you wonder why you joined this whole damned race-

Well,

There's a man I know that can guide you through this,
A man who wrote line after line of music,
That came to rest deep in the hearts of many,
He was known as Eyedea, of which he had plenty.
Now we all know an artist or two that has a vision,
and we all know some people who push beyond limits,
But this man personified potential he had,
wasn't happy boxed in with some short term fad,
or labels that only traced the outline he shaped,
wasn't one at night and another by day.
I guess what I'm gettin' at, what I'm trying to say,
is this man was original, authentic, and great-
and above all else he taught my mind to not wait,
cause there's a whole lot of work left beyond my gates.

Thank you Eyedea for all the inspiration you continue giving me. Peace.

Poems

2010-08-12T10:38:00.000-07:00

Random poem...

Avenue Gal
She walks around on avenues
where the sun can barely see her,
with dandelions on her dress
and grass that grows to reach her.

Hearts increase their rates a bit
when winds against her hair,
and wind that's blown beside her
prefers to stay right there.

Waiting for the Rain

2010-08-09T12:09:00.000-07:00

On the afternoon of August 8th, I'm stuck in my apartment listening to Fats Waller on the radio. Outside, the temperature is hanging around ninety degrees and the humidity makes you feel like you're breathing through a wet towel. Trees do their best to breeze, but the air is stubborn and refuses to move. The slow hum of my air conditioner reminds me that things could be much worse.
I walk out onto my porch and see a dark range of clouds that look like blue mountains in the distance. They are miles away but I can already feel them thinning the air, relieving it of its moisture. The wind finally gusts and pulls the treetops in every direction. I return to the cool inside and pack a canvas backpack with notebooks, pens, "'Tis" by Frank McCourt, and a bottle of water.
I walk downstairs, unlock my yellow Schwinn and ride against the wind to the Spyhouse at 25th St. and Nicollet Ave, where my friend Sean and I went before seeing "A Streetcar Named Desire" at the Guthrie Theater. We both dressed up to look the part and the barista said she liked my look. As we were leaving, I thanked her and we both looked back and smiled at each other. This is why I returned, hoping to see her in her black dress and buy coffee from her on a hot humid day and thank her as I left. So many beautiful women on these summer days in Minneapolis.
The sky begins to grow darker and I feel everything fall into place; cars parallel park, women unlock their apartment doors, and chairs are repositioned around the sidewalk cafe tables. I feel like something is about to happen, with all these actors and props so well-positioned, some significant event that will make me stop writing and simply stare into the street. Perhaps it will be a small accident on Nicollet Avenue, where driver after driver is undoubtedly texting and not minding the road. Or maybe raindrops will begin padding my notebook, making the wet ink expand and marble into different shapes that look like creatures from the deep sea. Or maybe now is when the beautiful barista will reappear, walking in and out of the shade, looking at the clouds like I am.
I wait, I listen, I watch, but nothing happens. I hear an older man a few tables down pass gas and his friend's hysterical laughter makes everything stop. I think about it and refuse to acknowledge that that was what everything fell into place for. Now too many people are around my table and I feel things falling apart. I move inside and find a small table beneath a painting of two white horses. The melodic sounds of "The Ethiopiques" plays on the cafe's speakers and track lighting reflects off framed artwork.
Too many of the same colors, I think.
A friend calls and she lives nearby. What are you doing, she asks.
Waiting for the rain, I say. Come over.
She finds me beneath my two horses and tells me to follow her outside, where she rolls a cigarette. I lean against the newsstand, study the clouds, and watch her ritual. She breathes and rolls and smokes and smiles at the towering clouds.
We should go to my house, she says, it looks like it's about to rain.
I agree, and I walk my bike alongside her tattoos until we reach her apartment. We finish my coffee and watch the cars and bikes pass along the street. A few friends pass and wave to us on their way, and everything seems to fall into place again.
Evening descends and the sounds of frogs and crickets begins to drone above the sounds of the city. My eyes trace the vines that climb the brick buildings across the street, where a woman begins calling up to her friend's apartment. No one answers, but she calls and calls and my friend and I look at each other and laugh.
We say goodnight and I return home to my porch, where the wind is still gusting and dark clouds cover the sky. I bring the radio outside and listen to more old jazz, like Jelly Roll Morton and other New Orleans cats. I lean back, rest my legs on the balcony and close my eyes, thinking about the barista, my friend's tattoos, and the rain that never came.

Birthday Card

2010-08-04T11:56:00.001-07:00

8 - 4 - 10

Mom,

Happy Happy Birthday to you. You are the best Mom in the world,
and here are just a few reasons why I think so:

Your unconditional love. No matter what the circumstances are, I know your love will continue, as strong as ever. Thank you.
Your guidance. You are so good at guiding others (especially your own children) and making sure they realize their potential. Thank you.
Your cooking skills. You are a GREAT cook... Well, you do come in second to Dad, but at least you have a great mentor around the house! :) Thanks for all the delicious food.
Your Spirit. No one can match the zest you have for life; thankfully, your zest is contagious. Thank you.

Like I said, these are just a few. Thank you for being my Mom and I hope you have a great BDAY!!

Love,
Sam

French Records...

2010-07-25T14:21:00.000-07:00

From my living room windows, the voice of Edith Piaf carelessly walks onto the heavy summer air hanging above 36th street. The piano mimics her steps, occasionally toeing out of stride and challenging the percussion that follows. Years and years have passed since her death, and the Little Sparrow continues to float in this procession of contained madness. Falling out of the window in slow motion, she carries me along and moves her hands through imagined knots in my hair, whispering lies I love to hear. The windows grow further and further away, until I can't remember the last lie, so I gaze into the painful dream that rests behind her face. We fall together but never hit the ground, and as Edith begins smoking cigarettes, I close my eyes and feel ashes fall over my face, burying me in careless dust. Then, just when I am unable to breathe, her pale lips produce the smallest stream of air, blowing the ash away from my face until I emerge from her spell. I open my eyes and see the needle spinning in the soundless void of a finished record.

7/18/10

- From Out of Nowhere -

2010-07-24T06:07:00.000-07:00

Hello- I guess this is the official rebirth of my blog. I was initially using this in conjunction with a class/program at the U of M, but now (a year or so later?) I'm going to take it in a different direction. I have been writing quite a bit recently and I want to begin sharing it with people. Books? Who knows what those are anymore.. besides, real writers don't even write their own books... they're too busy ghost writing for others. :) This is not going to be chronological or themed in any way... just poems, stories, journal entries, etc... all from my treasured "cow style" composition notebooks. They're the best! Without further ado, from out of nowhere...
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sound of rain falling for miles through the sky before it slaps the gray walkways and disappears into a giant expanse of depthless water. Each drop reminds me of forgotten dreams and trips on slow, winding trains. I would sit in the last car with a cup of coffee, each cup half as good as the one before, and watch the gravel sift from the heavy shake of the angry old train. The sun would find the trees before sliding down each branch, to where birds were already awake for hours, nestled between dry sticks, tangled towns of fishing line, and naked little eggs. The other passengers sat or lay half-reclined in their wicker chairs, baby blankets covering their laps, newspapers scattered about. They frowned from their physical discomfort, but smiled from their financial stability.

Occasionally, when seeing a beautiful girl walking down the isle, with warm rays of sunlight illuminating her body from the neck down, I would feel the impulse to leave my last car, my cup of coffee, and return to their world. We could probably have great conversations, agree on politics, maybe recommend books to each other. Still, every time I see her, I turn back down the tracks, watching the clouds and countryside move past, knowing that we are both headed for very different destinations.

And I'm used to it, too. All of it- the tired guitars I see around campfires and broken bridges, the shooting stars that float fast across the open water, the ancient lily pads that back away from jumping bullfrogs. Together, it all forms a sort of symphony that could seduce even the oldest of bachelors, the ones that never felt anything for anyone. Some call it a trap, a mere distraction when the ball is pitched or a favor you did for someone you didn't know that made you late for that last remaining ticket to the sold-out show.. or maybe its something as insignificant as a cloud that passes between you and one of them shooting stars. Still, that thing called love will always respond to the energy you give it.

I think about this whenever the sun goes home, when waves fight each other to gain a little ground, or when dry wood crashes down into a pit of red embers. There are wonderful people that live their whole lives alone, talking to their better half, mesmerized by what could have been and never was, and there are terrible people that live surrounded by others, infecting them with plastic expressions and expensive taste. I come and go between, learning what I can and switching my seat frequently. I don't pretend to have many answers, but when I meet young minds they can feel my age. They might watch me draw and smile at the emerging images, unaware that lines compose everything around them and light can be hid to produce something close to God. Its wonderful to watch this reaction, and for this, I smile too.

Breathing out, I look back down the tracks, behind the long, winding train, and watch another corner disappear into the distance.

Culture Clashes

2009-04-14T07:31:00.000-07:00

Inspired by a documentary made by the MOVE organization of Philadelphia. The only bomb ever dropped on a continental American city was ordered by the Mayor of Philadelphia, an asshole by the name of Frank Rizzo.

Watching different culture clashes in disasters,
amazed I never heard of 'em, my high school classes
served a slanted version to deal a diversion
to young minds growing who ain't valued as persons.
And it hurts me, pains me, it permanently changed me,
so now my own momentum doubles up on the daily,
and now my mind is sharper than machetes in Haiti,
Philly, Pennsylvania mid 1980s...
A bomb dropped on top a house with women and babies
Inside, tear gas and fire took hold,
a fire that was left to burn like seventy homes.
But far beyond the loss of the material things
was the loss of eleven lives, a curious thing-
considering the purpose of police is protection,
As an "educated" person, its my purpose to question.

Wheres road can't go and

Venting..

2009-03-11T11:47:00.001-07:00

Today, while observing in my cooperating teacher's Multicultural Film Studies Course, I was able to get a glimpse of student grades. They are posted on the wall in the classroom with student ID numbers, and they were recently updated because there are only a few weeks left of the third quarter.

I was stunned to see how many zeros appeared on that grid; it reminded me of the target I used to have as a child for my bow and arrow. It was literally filled with "holes." I thought to myself, "Wow, these students really don't take this course seriously, do they? I'm going to have my work cut out for me!" Then I began to wonder why they don't really complete the assignments. In his first film studies course of the day, I quickly found out. The class was watching Pineapple Express, the latest stoner movie to hit the heads of ever teenager in America. It was, as Mr. Lace confirmed, the movie the students selected for their "Student Choice" selection.

Here's an idea: students who haven't completed a crumb of work for the entire quarter shouldn't be able to watch this film. If this were my classroom (Ugh! If only it was!) the students with an incomplete would not have been given the privilege of voting.

In the beginning of class, he also reminded students that their screenplays would be due next week, and he had only received one rough draft so far. I asked some students if they had started theirs, and I received a unanimous "NO!" One student said, and I quote, "We are all basically here to enjoy the movies, then we realize suddenly, 'Wait! We have to do work, too?'" It got me thinking about the difference between film studies and simply movie watching. There is a difference!

My cooperating teacher continually reminds me from week to week that I should start out with something that will surely captivate the students. I plan on using "The Battle of Algiers," which I am positive will knock the socks off my students, even if there aren't continual bong hits and references to the kush weed that seems so cool to these kids. Ugh. I just had to vent. Sorry.

Keep it as it is... or include everything?

2009-02-23T13:55:00.000-08:00

While reading the Jenkins selections, I was reminded of some of the critiques I've encountered about Gardner's theory of multiple intelligences. Some believed that Gardner had simply renamed various skills/abilities and made them each their own special intelligence--as if before they were simply boring bowls of ice cream and now, after being classified an intelligence, were awesome ice cream sundaes with copious amounts of syrup.

The ever expanding idea of literacy provides a similar example of this phenomenon. Why is it that we labor over classifications? If I know the "ins and outs" of jaywalking, am I considered a literate jaywalker? What about cell phone etiquette; if I use my cell phone in an appropriate manner and never talk loudly in public areas, am I a literate user of cell phones? What defines a new literacy? Does it simply require norms of usage or practice?

I am not against expanding the definition of literacy to include media skills; in fact, I am really just being a reluctant skeptic. In my film studies course, I will depend highly on the "social skills and cultural competencies" that are necessary for people to fully participate in our modern world. Also, because I will be exploring the clash of cultures (modern vs. developing world, civilized vs. uncivilized, rich vs. poor etc), our class will be well positioned to critically analyze the demands of the modern world. What are the implications of these demands? Does everyone have access to the new media literacies? If not, what will the consequences be? What does this tell us about our society?

As we consider these issues, it will be necessary for students to consider the perspectives of other people, examine the differences between conflicting perspectives, and account for these differences. Jenkins seems to agree; while writing about the importance of role-playing, it seems what Jenkins is really after is the incorporation of multiple perspectives into the classroom:

"Role play, in particular, should be seen as a fundamental skill used across multiple academic domains. So far, we have suggested its relevance to history, language arts, and cultural geography. Yet, this only scratches the surface. Whether it be children on a playground acting out and deciphering the complex universe of Pokemon, or Orville Wright pretending to be a buzzard gliding over sand dunes, or Einstein imagining himself to be a photon speeding over the earth, role playing enables us to envision and collaboratively theorize about manipulating entirely new worlds." (Jenkins, 29)

I look forward to incorporating role-playing/multiple perspectives in my classroom, especially with the Fictional Spotlight assignment. This assignment will require students to spotlight a character from a silent film and give them a voice. As a teacher, I will pay close attention to how students use contextual clues from the movie to inform their understanding of the character. Where do they live? What do they eat? What is a normal day like for this person? I'm hoping to use the multigenre format in this assignment because it will allow the students to fully explore these questions.

Source:

New Literacies Dot Com - According to David O'Brien, this website "contains the best explanation to date of just what 'new' means in new literacies." The trouble is, the website design is absolutely terrible. It would be fun to critique this site using the skills/characteristics of new literacies explained by the Jenkins article. It provides a great example of how NOT to provide information on new literacies. :)

Breathe...

2009-02-18T14:03:00.000-08:00

Rain drains down the sidewalk,
trains travel under the bridge.
A lost man looks for his lover
the best of his lifes been lived.

Clouds cover up all the sunshine,
leaves fall and blanket the ground.
The lost man walks down the shoreline,
where waves take the world around.

Seeds travel over the mountains,
and settle in the valley below.
The lost man turns to the ocean,
thinking of the life he's known.

One step brings him the water,
soaks in the shoes of his soul.
He breathes the release that it offers,
there's not much further to go.

Now he knows every step is a lesson,
he's tired of the lessons he's learned.
The water takes the shape of a weapon,
to finish what he never deserved.

His hearts been in pieces for years now,
his cells have no reason to grow.
His whole life appears in the mirror now,
and soon the little mirror will explode.

Plants in the prisoner's garden
never find the light they need.
He turns up to God for a pardon,
it's one that he'll never receive.

Rain drains down the sidewalk
trains travel under the bridge
a lost man looks for his lover
the best of his lifes been lived.

Clouds cover up all his sunshine
leaves fall and blanket the ground.
The lost man walks down the shoreline,
where waves take the world around,
where waves take the world around..

-A poem from November, 2007

Language: Voiced and Unvoiced

2009-02-16T18:51:00.001-08:00

Spoken and written language. The choice of voice. The shmot of thought.

When I think about how I decide to write, I am surprised at the number of ingredients that go into my decision. Here is my recipe...

...just kidding, I would never do something so corny twice. Anyways, in all honesty, my thoughts travel through an industrial factory's worth of pipes, tubes, filters and screens before finally reaching the page. I constantly reconsider the arrangement of words. It would be interesting to remove my Backspace button and, for once, "talk" with typing.

Now that I consider the challenges this would impose, I think it would serve as a good exercise to show students the difference between their spoken voice and their written voice. Writing takes time; even successful, utterly precise writers revise their work over and over again while writing. By always considering the "connotations of alternative ways of expressing the same thought," good writers will guarantee that their readers have a good chance of safely arriving at the desired destination (Adger, et. al, 114).

It is not the same with verbal communication. In this mode of communication, there are different types of real-time revisions, such as body language, intonations, space fillers, etc. The participants in this type of communication produce discourse en juntos, as a team. Meaning is negotiated, loose, and free to adapt and change depending on which way you pull its tail.

There are a few strategies or exercises that would allow my students to access this understanding. First, as I mentioned above, it would be an interesting challenge to type without the Backspace key. This would show every student how hard it is not to revise their thoughts as they write; indeed, we often revise naturally! Second, I would provide my students with a few examples of transcribed speech in order to show them what real verbal discourse looks like on a page. What are the characteristics of speech? In comparison with regular written discourse, how does it appear on the page? What words are characteristic of verbal communication and what would be characteristic of written communication? What are the differences? I hope exploring these questions would give my students the skill set to recognize the similarities and the differences between verbal and written communication.

Resource:

Splatt Poetry Game

Poetry can be fun you know. This resource will show you how!

The Grammar Panic

2009-02-10T17:55:00.000-08:00

I'm scared of this. I make mistakes with grammar all the time. I'll even pretend like I make mistakes on purpose, you know, just so I can turn the system on its head and... you know, free everyone from those chains and all that. But the truth is, I'm not an expert when it comes to grammar. I want to teach English because of the power of words in a good story or poem, not because I believe my students will be empowered by semi-colon usage. Isn't there some way I can opt out of this part of teaching? Maybe at some point we will all be able to fill out a checklist noting the topics and material we'd like to teach; I'd be heavy on the humanities and hope that someone else picked up the grammar.

Okay—it’s not that bad. In fact, I believe I am beginning to overcome the frequent panic attacks and chronic hot flashes associated with grammar instruction. A significant turning point was a few weeks ago, when I was able to observe in a senior IB World Literature class taught by Mr. Grant (not to be confused with Mr. Loan or Mrs. Bailout). At the beginning of the 3^rd quarter, he realized his new classes needed significant help with grammar before he could begin his unit. So, here I was in a senior literature class, and they are taking a spelling test! Is that normal? Seriously… part of me drifted back to 5^th grade and remembered all those spelling tests on terrible composition paper. But get this—the class was much better than any of the multicultural film studies classes I have observed. The students were fully engaged in the material, cracking witty little jokes about the content, and even asking questions about the ambiguity of certain rules. After the spelling test, they spent the entire class period plowing through sentence after sentence, finding errors as a group and agreeing upon the necessary corrections. It was amazing to be a part of, to say the least.

When I look back on that class and really examine what component made it all possible, I believe it all flowed from Mr. Grant’s energy. He moved quickly throughout the room calling spontaneously on different students and hoping to catch someone off guard (even I was fair game, but he didn’t get me). He progressed quickly down through the sentences, and the students seemed to know that if they began to daydream, he’d seek them out. However, even if students made mistakes, and many did, Mr. Grant was quick to vindicate them.

After class, when I asked him how he keeps his enthusiasm up while teaching grammar, he responded, “Well, I have to keep it interesting for me, too.” Perhaps, then, the cure to the grammar panic may resemble the following:

1 cup of preparation

3 tbs. of enthusiasm

Two or three identifiable purposes, peeled and transparent

2 tbs. of humor

1 cup of care

Instructions: combine preparation, enthusiasm, and purposes into large classroom, stir with care. When the ingredients clump together, making it impossible to stir, sprinkle in the two tablespoons of humor to loosen it up. Repeat…

Link:

Grammar Slammer!

This site reminds me of when my family first started using the Internet. We had something called Prodigy, anyone remember that? Anyways, this website is probably not on its way to receiving a Golden Web Award (they exist, but don't waste your time looking it up), but it is practical.

A Portrait of the 5 Paragraph Writer as a Young Man

2009-02-03T17:58:00.000-08:00

When I was in high school, I wrote a variety of different types of papers-- the five paragraph, the compare/contrast, authentic research, journal response, and even one personal narrative. I was particularly fond of writing papers because it gave me the opportunity to respond to a book, explore its "hidden meanings," and ultimately arrive at some sort of conclusion. My English teachers were all incredibly helpful and I was fortunate enough to attend a school with a tons of computer labs. Looking back at my experience, it is easy to identify a multitude of access points, which effectively made it difficult for me not to understand the ins and outs of academic writing.

But for others, I wonder if the multigenre paper would be welcomed as an alternative. To me, its most obvious advantages is that it allows students to personalize their education and the content within the class. Using the best research paper I wrote in high school, which explored whether graffiti was an art or a crime, I can imagine how a multigenre paper would have looked:

As Romano notes, a multigenre paper should start with a preface, or foreword, announcing the intentions of the author. I would explain its purpose, why I am interested in it, and what I hope to explore through the contents of my paper.

Next, I would probably have started with a poem.... something like...

Walking between some buildings on the way to a friends
the beauty of a back alley makes me pause to take in
tags from 98, many years in the past,
I put a couple down too, hopin' half of 'em last.
Then I change route, to let it cool down in the park,
'cause now a days droppin' tags ain't considered an art...
Though its cool to wear shirts with the words all written
in a style influenced by an act thats forbidden...
I can calculate the risk, weigh the pros and the cons,
perspective of both sides, like the rights and the wrongs:
To one man its damage, he laments his loss,
the other man will measure life with the tags he drops.

Next, I could add any number of conversations I've had with my parents over the years.

"Sam, I really wish you'd do something with that art of yours."
"I am doing something with it, you just don't really understand it."
"I understand it perfectly fine, but what YOU don't understand is that someone owns everything you've ever painted on."
"But I don't paint recklessly, I never paint on private property or even property where people like my parents would see!"
"In the eyes of police, that hardly matters. Am I going to see you on The People's Court someday?"
"UUuuuuughhhh, forget it."

Of course, I could really go on forever with different ideas to put into my multigenre paper, and isn't that absolutely the point?! This genre really allows the writer to thoroughly explore a topic and relate to it in a meaningful way. To be honest, the five paragraph essay fails miserably at this. I was proud of the graffiti research paper I did in high school, but I do remember that I, as an artist, had no place within the paper. Though I had knowledge and experience which were applicable to my research, I chose not to include my personal anecdotes because it didn't "fit within the neat, prescribed formula" of the thesis (Wesley, 58).

A resource: The Great Debate Over the Five-Paragraph Essay

This is a great article I found concerning the five-paragraph essay debate. The article is hosted by www.associatedcontent.com which is a Wikipedia, of sorts.

Baptism by Fire... A resource...

2009-01-27T20:48:00.000-08:00

Baptism by Fire

What you will encounter at that site will forever change your life.

...Then again, everything changes your life! It's a site of very cool tips, and in fact, they are referred to as essential.

Really Reading Romano

2009-01-25T17:50:00.000-08:00

Isn't this a cool text? When I began the first chapter, and encountered "Liz," the teacher that keeps a sketchbook for her notes, I thought to myself, "So that's why I'm always doodling, it's a vital component of my literacy skills!" As I continued to read, I realized that multigenre practices, such as Liz's notes, are generally discouraged in the secondary schools. Instead, teachers must focus on the five-star essay. Why? Tradition and precedent, of course. Unless students can effectively navigate through the five-paragraph formula, they won't be able to make the leap into college (where, as we all know, more tedious hoops await). Worse, they will not score adequately on the state writing proficiency tests.

While Romano is careful to note that academic essays (as well as other forms of paradigmatic thinking, such as textbooks, editorials, articles, etc.) should be an important part of every students' education, he also acknowledges other alternatives. These alternatives, which represent narrative ways of knowing, render "experience or phenomenon" through stories, poetry, drama, and even visual arts.
Looking back on my own academic career, I can recall only a handful of assignments that allowed me to utilize my narrative way of knowing. However, during the third and fourth years of my undergraduate studies, I was finally given a number of different opportunities to really write creatively. I appreciated classes that placed emphasis on my narrative knowledge and would love to provide students with that type of course. I think multigenre writing is the perfect tool for this because it allows students to place more value on their personal interaction the subject matter.