Words, words, words.
Today was Valentine's day. It was my first day back after the snow escapades, and I tried so hard to renew the positive attitude I had pre-regents week. Today we did Love-themed grammar and poetry. It was mildly successful, although the students were more interested in polling each other about who had Valentines than anything else. But what hit me as more poignant than teen loneliness/confusion was the main topic of discussion in my grad class; my kids' "home language"-- or their "primary discourse" to use education-world speak.
In other words, as I read an Edna St. Vincent Millay sonnet with all the passion I can and then ask my students to write their own sonnets in response (hoping they'll absorb some of Edna's eloquence) do I have a right to foist my preference for erudite sonnetteers onto my students, perhaps unintentionally making them feel small in their own inability to speak "standard english", whatever that is?
The die-hard liberal in me, the adolescent rebel who sympathizes too much with the 15-year olds in her keeping, wants to say no, that objectively, the home language must be valued as much as the school language, that the dominance of the school language is an arbitrary one determined by who has the money and power in society. But then I look at my students' love poems, which include such memorable lines as "love is good/it can be bad" or "i feel desire/you set my soul on fire" and am forced to relent, somewhat.
I do feel that the "home language" spoken by my students, and dictated primarily by social chatting and cliches of pop culture, HAS LIMITED them in their ability to express their feelings. And it adds to the problems they already have communicating with themselves, with others. In a sense, by our denying them a rich language, are we denying them a certain level of self-knowledge.
It is very hard, nay impossible, for me to say these things; I feel like I have no right to say that my students mediocre adolescent poetry doesn't stack up to the mediocre adolescent poetry their peers at hunter and stuyvesant are writing ("I sense a sort of jubilant obfuscation/ at this incarnation of my five-year old self" sort of stuff) which of course is equally obtuse and bland. In fact, they do stack up; they are both self-conscious cliches, both far from the truth more mature self-analysis might bring. Maybe my students' poems are more honest than the angsty stuff, but I just want them to have the TOOLS to choose. To merge their home language with Shakespeare, the way one of my English teachers who had been plucked from the streets to Princeton was so brilliantly able to do. I want them to not be limited by cliches about fire, desire, you and true. I want them to be able to look into themselves and choose from a sea of words and combinations knowingly.
*
On another note, I'd like to say best of luck to Bode Miller. The Olympics have been a most welcome distraction.
Also, I read "A Hope in the Unseen," by Ron Suskind about a kid who goes from the inner-city to the Ivy-LEague (the opposite of me, natch) and it was INCREDIBLY illuminating. I really recommend it for anyone interested in education.
In other words, as I read an Edna St. Vincent Millay sonnet with all the passion I can and then ask my students to write their own sonnets in response (hoping they'll absorb some of Edna's eloquence) do I have a right to foist my preference for erudite sonnetteers onto my students, perhaps unintentionally making them feel small in their own inability to speak "standard english", whatever that is?
The die-hard liberal in me, the adolescent rebel who sympathizes too much with the 15-year olds in her keeping, wants to say no, that objectively, the home language must be valued as much as the school language, that the dominance of the school language is an arbitrary one determined by who has the money and power in society. But then I look at my students' love poems, which include such memorable lines as "love is good/it can be bad" or "i feel desire/you set my soul on fire" and am forced to relent, somewhat.
I do feel that the "home language" spoken by my students, and dictated primarily by social chatting and cliches of pop culture, HAS LIMITED them in their ability to express their feelings. And it adds to the problems they already have communicating with themselves, with others. In a sense, by our denying them a rich language, are we denying them a certain level of self-knowledge.
It is very hard, nay impossible, for me to say these things; I feel like I have no right to say that my students mediocre adolescent poetry doesn't stack up to the mediocre adolescent poetry their peers at hunter and stuyvesant are writing ("I sense a sort of jubilant obfuscation/ at this incarnation of my five-year old self" sort of stuff) which of course is equally obtuse and bland. In fact, they do stack up; they are both self-conscious cliches, both far from the truth more mature self-analysis might bring. Maybe my students' poems are more honest than the angsty stuff, but I just want them to have the TOOLS to choose. To merge their home language with Shakespeare, the way one of my English teachers who had been plucked from the streets to Princeton was so brilliantly able to do. I want them to not be limited by cliches about fire, desire, you and true. I want them to be able to look into themselves and choose from a sea of words and combinations knowingly.
*
On another note, I'd like to say best of luck to Bode Miller. The Olympics have been a most welcome distraction.
Also, I read "A Hope in the Unseen," by Ron Suskind about a kid who goes from the inner-city to the Ivy-LEague (the opposite of me, natch) and it was INCREDIBLY illuminating. I really recommend it for anyone interested in education.
Labels: Teaching from the trenches
posted by SarahMarian at 6:46 PM
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