Hope (and Golf) in the Time of PARCC

Hope.

After the third day of PARCC testing (the third of twelve), I decided to leave work “early” — which means 4:00 pm. Feeling exhausted and dreaming of the peanut butter Snickers bar in the cupboard, I drove home. After parking, I slung my gym and school bags over my shoulders, grabbed the mail, and walked three flights of stairs up to my apartment, which I share with my husband. As I walked into the kitchen to grab that Snickers, I saw a box of golf balls (pictured above) resting on the counter. I smiled. And then I thought: Yes, he finally has hope.

Over a year ago, my husband had total shoulder replacement surgery. After twenty years of almost no mobility in his left arm, he was finally old enough and ready for this really invasive procedure. He was told that in six months he’d be playing golf. It worked pretty well, but my husband had developed a great deal of scar tissue, which needed to be treated surgically.  Determined to play golf last summer, he put off the second surgery and suffered through his annual guys’ golf trip last summer but then did not play again because of the pain.  This winter, my husband had that second surgery and began physical therapy the next day. Now, he goes to physical therapy three times a week. We spend our evenings with ice packs and ibuprofen (and a few groans and whines of pain). Last night, however, my husband looked in the mirror with disgust at how his chest and shoulder muscles have atrophied, and we both wondered if he’d ever be “strong” again.

But today, I saw this box of golf balls on the kitchen counter — a sign of hope that he believes (or has to believe) that he will play golf again even if these are not the top-of-the-line golf balls. My husband said, “It makes it less painful to lose a ball that costs twenty cents than one that costs one or two dollars.” (So it’s hope with a side of realism, yes?)

Hope in a Time of Testing

In this season of testing, teachers can easily sink into disillusionment with our institution. We may feel that the federal government, state, school, and principals are “doing this to us” or “putting students through this,” see the injustices of many hours of testing and less instruction, and believe we have no recourse. We may look in the mirror and see our teaching muscles atrophying. However, we forget that we are part of the institution and can shape its structures. For me, that means taking this opportunity to visit the classrooms of my colleagues, see my students in different settings, and, above all, notice the hope around me.

The purpose of this post is to share a moment that gave me hope this week, a moment from the classroom – not that the golf balls didn’t give me hope, too.  This post is written in the “hopes” that you will share a hope moment with Ethical ELA. Can’t we all use a little hope?

Ashley and the Ode

Last week, two students gave a presentation on the ode form with the help of Pablo Neruda’s “Ode to My Socks.” Afterward, we brainstormed lists of things we use everyday and perhaps take for granted that we can praise in ode to express our gratitude for/to it. This was fun, but it was before PARCC, so it is not my hope moment.

The hope moment came when, after the first round of testing, half of my eighth period reading students arrived without their novels (the schedule change threw them off),  and one after the next walked out of class to get her book. The door clicking open and then slamming shut repeatedly was just about to fray my last nerve when one girl called me over to show me an ode in her book.

Now this precious student is one who, well, I think fake reads from time to time. I rarely see her getting into the flow during our quiet reading time, so I was surprised to see she was on page thirty of The Clay Marble  by Minfong Ho. “Dr. Donovan, I see an ode in my book,” said Ashley sitting on the class ottoman (gifted by my sister) with her book in hand and a pile of sticky notes.

Last week, she told me that did not want to read in a book group this time and asked if I could just be her partner during discussion time. I totally forgot that I agreed to this and had not re-read this book as I promised. I did not recall if this was a novel in verse and was confused by Ashley’s comment about the ode.

“What? What do you mean? Is there a poem in your book?” I asked kneeling down to get a closer look.

Sure enough it was not a book in verse, so I was worried that Ashley misunderstood our lesson on odes, but I asked her to read the passage to me.

I lifted a spoonful of rice and ate it. I thought about what a wonderful thing it is to eat rice. First you let the smell drift up in lazy spirals, sweet and elusive; then you look at the color of it, softer and whiter than the surrounding steam. Carefully you put a spoonful of it in your mouth, and feel each grain separate on your tongue, firm and warm. Then you taste it — the rich yet delicate sweetness of it. How different it was from that gritty red rice we’d been rationed to the last three years, gruel so bland and watery that it slipped right down your throat before you could taste it. No, this was real rice, whole moist grains I could chew and savor.

“See?” she said confidently. “Rice. All that description for rice. It is an ode to rice. That rice is precious — like the socks. Right?”

“Yes, Ashley, yes, it is.”

Hope.

(And then I put a copy of The Clay Marble in my book bag.)

Please Share 

After this moment with Ashley, I was able to look for, see, and embrace many more moments of hope at times when the heat of the day, stress of the schedule, and sheer absurdity of it all was weighing on us. I am sure you have or can find a hope moment to share with us. Yes? We certainly need it.