By Anna Bernard
Anaphora -
"Repetition of the same word or phrase at the beginning of successive clauses or verses." This is one of the ways through the years that I have expressed my thoughts about teaching. The assignment would be,"Start with this phrase______" and whatever the phrase was, I would begin to write my feelings about classroom life. Consequently I have a series of teacher poems utilizing anaphora.
Through That Door They Come
Through that door they come every September
The overly short or tall
The overly chubby or thin
The just right
Like so many kinds of bears
or flavors of porridge.
Through that door they come year after year
Full of hope and excitement
Varying levels of fear and boldness
Curiosity and lack of
Sociability and shyness
Chalk full of gray matter
And with brains seemingly left behind on the pillow.
Through that door they come
Each one with bright clear eyes
And no idea what they will be
What joys and troubles life will dash upon them
These small sunwarmed beaches of life.
Fathers raking in the money
Fathers in prison
Fathers long gone
and Fathers drowning in too many beers.
Fathers who adore them
and Fathers who deny them.
Through that door they come--
The handiwork of their Mothers
Beloved
Neglected
Read to and well fed
Or short on story and weak in words,
Number loving and Math phobic
Through that door they come and then--
I close it.
And we begin to be a class family,
Another way of experiencing self
Set to balance with whatever and everything
they bring from home
From the treacheries of modern life.
Through that door they'll go
in June
and I will be an icon,
A set of memories and
the builder of a few new neural connections,
But in my heart,always a cheerleader
My megaphone teacher's voice
fading with time
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Friday, March 20, 2009
Long Before I Became a Teacher
By Rita Murstein Wohl
Over the ridge and sloping down near the river was the furniture store. Across the street was the hat maker. Haddie was very straightforward but warm. If you didn't see what you liked, she would make it for you. Many hours were spent designing and gently speaking well of others. Haddie didn't gossip. She spent her time twirling tulle and netting. There was a small assortment of feathers and small piles of felt waiting to be pressed into a superior design. Mama often took us with her. It was our female bonding.
Down the way was Main Street. On one corner stood one of our tallest buildings, five stories high. The top floors had offices and it always smelled like medicine. The Orr Felt Building had one of the few mechanical elevators that I knew of, but the ground floor was the best of all. Woolworth's was there. It was beige and brown and full of everything in the world. I think this is where I did my first and only theft. I stole two cellophane straws. The thrill was too much for me and that is why I went straight, I think.
In the next block over were Krege's and Murphy's. They were also beige with wonderful chocolate wood framed cases, with large chocolate and gold signs like candy bars hanging down on gold chains. Murphy's was on the corner in a lovely yellow brick building. All of the dime stores looked and smelled like Hershey bars. I bought a beautiful canary on layaway at Murphy's. It later, but not much later, had a nervous breakdown and died on its back.
A few steps over was Gallagher's Drug Store. It had a huge glass square of candy cases much bigger than I ever got to be. I lost my Mama in that store and still remember crying while she held my hand and led me back through the store while people smaller than I stared and made the experience go from tragic to traumatic. If my sisters or I had gotten a good report card, we sat in a booth at the back and could order Sundaes from the soda fountain for 25 cents. If we didn't do so well, Mom would order dopes for us. One scoop of ice cream was a dope. Chocolate. Fifteen cents.
The greatest place in the world was Bussers Ice Cream Parlor. You immediately smelled the soda and chocolate. The place was roaring from the giant belt churning the cream in the basement and reaching up to the gears upstairs. Nothing in the world will ever smell so good again. The counter and the tabletops were soft gray marble and the ice cream chairs were green.
Right next door was Brown's Department Store. This was the real thing. Rollers sent tubes with the money racing through the tracks to and from the office. Later the tracks became pneumatic tubes. We would go to the back of the second floor to stand in front of the dressmaker while staring at the bleak backs of the few other big buildings in town. The end of the block opened to the town square that had granite water fountains and flowers.A huge gray stone castle commanded an entire view of the area. The sidewalk was fitted with thick colored glass rounds. I loved to feel the round raised smoothness of them under my feet. I was so sad to discover they had a purpose - to light up the basement for the workers. I wanted them to be there just for beauty. We would march up the decorative iron steps to the large cool lobby. On the left, Pop would buy a cigar and shoot dice a few times. There were some sizable round holes in the large leather lobby furniture. I am told they were gun holes. Somehow, I always related them to Abraham Lincoln.
Around the corner again and we come to the furniture store with the funeral home across the street. This store has the biggest windows in town. Above it was the Elks Lounge, restaurant, bar and card room. Above that were the spooky maroon draped meeting rooms.
The furniture store was special. You didn't see one every day. This was where I stopped and stared. I stopped there after school and after funerals and after walking the gas light route to and through downtown every year. During this historical tribute, people put their old furniture and treasures in candle lit windows and stores did it too. I started there for the crowded Saturday night stroll down Main Street when the farmers were in town.
People would always gather on the sofas and talked in lowered tones if there were customers in the store. I remember telling my friend that a chair cost $3000 dollars because it was so big. I wanted so much to be a big shot so that my Daddy would let me be the elevator girl on occasion. I would ask which floor(there was only main and the basement). Then he would lower the big wooden gate and I would start pulling the rope for our journey.
Christmas was fabulous. The boxes were pulled from the back workroom and out came the shiny red and green trimmings. They were scratchy, but wonderous. We had to be a little older before we were allowed to help hang the swags. My mother spent a lot of time there talking to the people and handing out candy.
My father had the first TVs in town - Admirals and Motorolas. I told him to sell out. They were only fads. Did you ever know anybody's advice to ask for because the opposite was the right answer?
The store was close to home so we could always get there for nickels and dimes if we needed to. It was close enough so that we could eat dinner before 5:30 after the store closed at 5:00. Mr. Looney was the salesman and always looked the same. Miss Sigler was a wonderful and loyal secretary. There was usually a furniture finisher up the small steep ramp to the back where the furniture would be loaded onto the trucks.
The store was a place for serious family talks, celebrations, planning and mostly, with saddened heart I say, for memories.
Over the ridge and sloping down near the river was the furniture store. Across the street was the hat maker. Haddie was very straightforward but warm. If you didn't see what you liked, she would make it for you. Many hours were spent designing and gently speaking well of others. Haddie didn't gossip. She spent her time twirling tulle and netting. There was a small assortment of feathers and small piles of felt waiting to be pressed into a superior design. Mama often took us with her. It was our female bonding.
Down the way was Main Street. On one corner stood one of our tallest buildings, five stories high. The top floors had offices and it always smelled like medicine. The Orr Felt Building had one of the few mechanical elevators that I knew of, but the ground floor was the best of all. Woolworth's was there. It was beige and brown and full of everything in the world. I think this is where I did my first and only theft. I stole two cellophane straws. The thrill was too much for me and that is why I went straight, I think.
In the next block over were Krege's and Murphy's. They were also beige with wonderful chocolate wood framed cases, with large chocolate and gold signs like candy bars hanging down on gold chains. Murphy's was on the corner in a lovely yellow brick building. All of the dime stores looked and smelled like Hershey bars. I bought a beautiful canary on layaway at Murphy's. It later, but not much later, had a nervous breakdown and died on its back.
A few steps over was Gallagher's Drug Store. It had a huge glass square of candy cases much bigger than I ever got to be. I lost my Mama in that store and still remember crying while she held my hand and led me back through the store while people smaller than I stared and made the experience go from tragic to traumatic. If my sisters or I had gotten a good report card, we sat in a booth at the back and could order Sundaes from the soda fountain for 25 cents. If we didn't do so well, Mom would order dopes for us. One scoop of ice cream was a dope. Chocolate. Fifteen cents.
The greatest place in the world was Bussers Ice Cream Parlor. You immediately smelled the soda and chocolate. The place was roaring from the giant belt churning the cream in the basement and reaching up to the gears upstairs. Nothing in the world will ever smell so good again. The counter and the tabletops were soft gray marble and the ice cream chairs were green.
Right next door was Brown's Department Store. This was the real thing. Rollers sent tubes with the money racing through the tracks to and from the office. Later the tracks became pneumatic tubes. We would go to the back of the second floor to stand in front of the dressmaker while staring at the bleak backs of the few other big buildings in town. The end of the block opened to the town square that had granite water fountains and flowers.A huge gray stone castle commanded an entire view of the area. The sidewalk was fitted with thick colored glass rounds. I loved to feel the round raised smoothness of them under my feet. I was so sad to discover they had a purpose - to light up the basement for the workers. I wanted them to be there just for beauty. We would march up the decorative iron steps to the large cool lobby. On the left, Pop would buy a cigar and shoot dice a few times. There were some sizable round holes in the large leather lobby furniture. I am told they were gun holes. Somehow, I always related them to Abraham Lincoln.
Around the corner again and we come to the furniture store with the funeral home across the street. This store has the biggest windows in town. Above it was the Elks Lounge, restaurant, bar and card room. Above that were the spooky maroon draped meeting rooms.
The furniture store was special. You didn't see one every day. This was where I stopped and stared. I stopped there after school and after funerals and after walking the gas light route to and through downtown every year. During this historical tribute, people put their old furniture and treasures in candle lit windows and stores did it too. I started there for the crowded Saturday night stroll down Main Street when the farmers were in town.
People would always gather on the sofas and talked in lowered tones if there were customers in the store. I remember telling my friend that a chair cost $3000 dollars because it was so big. I wanted so much to be a big shot so that my Daddy would let me be the elevator girl on occasion. I would ask which floor(there was only main and the basement). Then he would lower the big wooden gate and I would start pulling the rope for our journey.
Christmas was fabulous. The boxes were pulled from the back workroom and out came the shiny red and green trimmings. They were scratchy, but wonderous. We had to be a little older before we were allowed to help hang the swags. My mother spent a lot of time there talking to the people and handing out candy.
My father had the first TVs in town - Admirals and Motorolas. I told him to sell out. They were only fads. Did you ever know anybody's advice to ask for because the opposite was the right answer?
The store was close to home so we could always get there for nickels and dimes if we needed to. It was close enough so that we could eat dinner before 5:30 after the store closed at 5:00. Mr. Looney was the salesman and always looked the same. Miss Sigler was a wonderful and loyal secretary. There was usually a furniture finisher up the small steep ramp to the back where the furniture would be loaded onto the trucks.
The store was a place for serious family talks, celebrations, planning and mostly, with saddened heart I say, for memories.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
THE BULLDOG MAGAZINE
By Roberta Mark Engel
It is now March. Do your child’s thoughts turn to love and spring? Have you ever thought of expressing your thoughts on paper? Would you and your child like to compose together? You both could convey your innermost thoughts. This is an opportunity for an innovative focus on education. Read on. I’ll show you how to write!
How about an example of the importance and enjoyment of writing for “The Bulldog Magazine?” I taught middle school and published this magazine for students. In March, my editorial board judged the student manuscripts which followed a standardized rubric. This was an arduous task, therefore only publishing those pieces with the top scores. Did you know the magazine also had an editorial committee as for our artists and followed the same procedure?
You can be a published writer also. Now, here are the basics. The Writing Process begins with a storyboard which is a precursor to the actual script. When I taught, my students composed a sentence and drew a picture for his or her proposed writing exercises. Then, I asked them to think of a title for this poetry or prose. We shared this title with the entire classroom and this creation belonged exclusively to each individual child.
The students even invited their parents to join our writing class. They chose to draft companion “pieces.” Research has shown that the family that shared a common interest (i.e. writing) had far fewer adjustment problems.
Revision of work was actually the most enjoyable part of writing and strengthened everyone’s craft. Students and their parents shared their work with each other in the class. They repaired final highlighted requests chosen by their members. These associates listened to what their partners said about their pieces and the criteria for the assignment.
After they were happy with the content of their text, they edited, reread, edited, and reread while using “Spell Check” and a “Language, Thesaurus”. The last stage was the publication of their artistry.
We printed our magazine in-house-a vanity press operation. I am sure that you can imagine that our students enjoyed seeing themselves in print. These magazines were available for purchase and also for viewing in the library. In addition, they were cumulative over several years and consisting of over one hundred pages. These stages of writing process produced several drafts until the final “perfect” rendition was ready. How exciting!!
Can you imagine the excitement your child would have to be published at such a young age? Did you check to see if your child had a school-wide magazine? Maybe your child could write about Valentines Day, St. Patrick’s Day, Memorial Day, Mother’s Day or Father’s Day. The writing choices are limitless. These interests are worthwhile and give your children validation?
Aren’t you more interested in the excitement of writing? There are writing classes advertised in your city’s brochure. Also, check the YMCA prices, and your local two or four year institution. The Learning Tree University also offers writing classes, but for an increased monetary amount. There are also on-line classes. You both will learn writing skills which would be your craft that you can share with your child.
And remember that this is the time that young girls’ and boys’ thoughts turn to love. Why not make their interests worthwhile and give them validation? Their choices are unbounded and so are yours!
It is now March. Do your child’s thoughts turn to love and spring? Have you ever thought of expressing your thoughts on paper? Would you and your child like to compose together? You both could convey your innermost thoughts. This is an opportunity for an innovative focus on education. Read on. I’ll show you how to write!
How about an example of the importance and enjoyment of writing for “The Bulldog Magazine?” I taught middle school and published this magazine for students. In March, my editorial board judged the student manuscripts which followed a standardized rubric. This was an arduous task, therefore only publishing those pieces with the top scores. Did you know the magazine also had an editorial committee as for our artists and followed the same procedure?
You can be a published writer also. Now, here are the basics. The Writing Process begins with a storyboard which is a precursor to the actual script. When I taught, my students composed a sentence and drew a picture for his or her proposed writing exercises. Then, I asked them to think of a title for this poetry or prose. We shared this title with the entire classroom and this creation belonged exclusively to each individual child.
The students even invited their parents to join our writing class. They chose to draft companion “pieces.” Research has shown that the family that shared a common interest (i.e. writing) had far fewer adjustment problems.
Revision of work was actually the most enjoyable part of writing and strengthened everyone’s craft. Students and their parents shared their work with each other in the class. They repaired final highlighted requests chosen by their members. These associates listened to what their partners said about their pieces and the criteria for the assignment.
After they were happy with the content of their text, they edited, reread, edited, and reread while using “Spell Check” and a “Language, Thesaurus”. The last stage was the publication of their artistry.
We printed our magazine in-house-a vanity press operation. I am sure that you can imagine that our students enjoyed seeing themselves in print. These magazines were available for purchase and also for viewing in the library. In addition, they were cumulative over several years and consisting of over one hundred pages. These stages of writing process produced several drafts until the final “perfect” rendition was ready. How exciting!!
Can you imagine the excitement your child would have to be published at such a young age? Did you check to see if your child had a school-wide magazine? Maybe your child could write about Valentines Day, St. Patrick’s Day, Memorial Day, Mother’s Day or Father’s Day. The writing choices are limitless. These interests are worthwhile and give your children validation?
Aren’t you more interested in the excitement of writing? There are writing classes advertised in your city’s brochure. Also, check the YMCA prices, and your local two or four year institution. The Learning Tree University also offers writing classes, but for an increased monetary amount. There are also on-line classes. You both will learn writing skills which would be your craft that you can share with your child.
And remember that this is the time that young girls’ and boys’ thoughts turn to love. Why not make their interests worthwhile and give them validation? Their choices are unbounded and so are yours!
Saturday, March 7, 2009
It's a Long Time Ago
By Gary Bernard
Leonard Cohen
And it's a long time ago
And it wasn't a CD
But a record on a record player
And my books
And my rolltop desk
And the floor to ceiling window
Framing the garden
With spotted green
And rocks bouldered from Tujunga Canyon
And the pipe I bargained for
In the Kapp and Petersen shop
In the maze of cobblestones
That bring mystery and culture
And poetry to the streets of Dublin
And I would draw out my tobacco
Like a forgotten lover that greets me
Before my eyes close
And on my desk is my notebook
Open and blank
Waiting
And I light up my pipe
And my day is stretched
Over Freeway and downtown streets
To Tenth St. School
And I fight and argue
And bring together thirty-eight children
In an experiment
I call"education"
Am I being creative?
Civilizing?
Inventive?
Independent?
Or, am I just waiting,
Waiting for the bell to ring?
And the bell rings
And at my desk
After the children have left
My eyes linger at each empty chair
And one by one I think,
"Have I done my job?"
So,
Their mothers say,
"What did you learn today?"
Or, maybe they don't ask at all
Maybe mom is not home
Maybe working
Maybe working one of three jobs
Or maybe, in a fit of rage, passion,
Or fear
Has just run away
And I close my record book
My lessons are set for tomorrow
I lock my classroom door
I'm one of the late ones
The janitor knows me well
And I sign out in the office
And if my car is not working
That week
I drive my motorcycle
And in a corrosive wild spirit
I motor up Alvarado
Passing next to Mac Arthur Park
And I smell the taco vendors
With their pungent meat and salsa
And I pass my Uncle Chuck's newstand
And the used furniture stores
Staked with old kitchen chairs
And discarded vinyl tables
And with no helmet
My long hair secured with a red bandana
I race into Griffith Park
Speed
An elixir to cleanse and frighten
And touch what spirit rides reckless
And I grab my pipe
And with a strong inhaling of tobacco
I sit back at my desk
Exhale the smoke
And I write my words,
Massaged, like my spirit
To reach out and identify my
Dreams, my doubts, my fears
...And now,
Now it's Leonard Cohen again
And at Sixty-two
I find myself
With pen
But this time
All I have
Are my words
Words that speak only to me
Words in the shadows
That play
And dance
In shafts of light
That meet
Only in the afternoon alleys of my mind
And with my pillow to my headboard
And my pen
Feverishly penning
And penning
I keep writing
Writing more words.
Leonard Cohen
And it's a long time ago
And it wasn't a CD
But a record on a record player
And my books
And my rolltop desk
And the floor to ceiling window
Framing the garden
With spotted green
And rocks bouldered from Tujunga Canyon
And the pipe I bargained for
In the Kapp and Petersen shop
In the maze of cobblestones
That bring mystery and culture
And poetry to the streets of Dublin
And I would draw out my tobacco
Like a forgotten lover that greets me
Before my eyes close
And on my desk is my notebook
Open and blank
Waiting
And I light up my pipe
And my day is stretched
Over Freeway and downtown streets
To Tenth St. School
And I fight and argue
And bring together thirty-eight children
In an experiment
I call"education"
Am I being creative?
Civilizing?
Inventive?
Independent?
Or, am I just waiting,
Waiting for the bell to ring?
And the bell rings
And at my desk
After the children have left
My eyes linger at each empty chair
And one by one I think,
"Have I done my job?"
So,
Their mothers say,
"What did you learn today?"
Or, maybe they don't ask at all
Maybe mom is not home
Maybe working
Maybe working one of three jobs
Or maybe, in a fit of rage, passion,
Or fear
Has just run away
And I close my record book
My lessons are set for tomorrow
I lock my classroom door
I'm one of the late ones
The janitor knows me well
And I sign out in the office
And if my car is not working
That week
I drive my motorcycle
And in a corrosive wild spirit
I motor up Alvarado
Passing next to Mac Arthur Park
And I smell the taco vendors
With their pungent meat and salsa
And I pass my Uncle Chuck's newstand
And the used furniture stores
Staked with old kitchen chairs
And discarded vinyl tables
And with no helmet
My long hair secured with a red bandana
I race into Griffith Park
Speed
An elixir to cleanse and frighten
And touch what spirit rides reckless
And I grab my pipe
And with a strong inhaling of tobacco
I sit back at my desk
Exhale the smoke
And I write my words,
Massaged, like my spirit
To reach out and identify my
Dreams, my doubts, my fears
...And now,
Now it's Leonard Cohen again
And at Sixty-two
I find myself
With pen
But this time
All I have
Are my words
Words that speak only to me
Words in the shadows
That play
And dance
In shafts of light
That meet
Only in the afternoon alleys of my mind
And with my pillow to my headboard
And my pen
Feverishly penning
And penning
I keep writing
Writing more words.
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