Where I'm From, 2015 extended dance mix

     Another poetry month has come and gone. In spite of state testing on the horizon, we spent some time creating our "Where I'm From" poems in order to get a handle on free verse techniques. I asked that children go heavy on the sensory imagery and gather facts from at least one family member of a different generation. 
     There are at least two other posts on my blog about this activity, but this year students chose a "golden line" to include in our collective/collaborative poem.
   If a line is indented, that means it belongs to the same person who wrote the preceding line. The students are very proud of their work, and we hope you enjoy reading our family history.

“Where I’m From”

I am from a stranger time

          from a bad war and an old compass

A man who put his country before him

          And became my hero

I am from military moves all around the globe

I am from the tendrils of the Vietnam War

And my grandfather’s homecoming

I am from C-130’s in Vietnam

          To Apache helicopters in Afghanistan

And keeping vendettas

I am from a broken down town

          Gun shells everywhere

From stitches in people

to stitches in stuffed animals

I am from collections of Indian arrow heads

I am from open fields and massive mountains

From sleeping under the stars

I am from long rides to county fairs

From hooves pounding against the ground

          To get to the open

I’m from factory fresh Rolls Royces

          and dusty Chevy step sides

I am from rusty trucks and muddy boots

I am from the scratches on my knees

I am from the acne on my parents’ faces

I am from sweet tea on the front porch swing

From a cheagle running

I am from slurred words and fast talkin’

I am from corn hole and fireworks

          Until the neighbors complain

Where pranks were part of our daily routine

I am from the country mile to the city limits

from blaring Bruce Springsteen out of the old stereo in the Blazer

Pushin’ the speed limit on dirt roads without a care in the world

I am from the North and the South

I’m from the smell of horses and fresh cut grass

I’m from the quick whiff of cookies baking

I am from Florida, Ohio, Virginia,

          Each with friendships broken and repaired

I am from Puerto Rican neat freaks

I am from the Naval base in Japan

          Two baby boys brought home

          To the giddy faces of their new family

          Fighting over who gets to hold them first

I am from New Orleans

          Where the gumbo smells like vegetable soup

I am from the salty smell of the Gulf

I am from Portugal

          With soccer fanatics and day long beach trips

I am from gauchos and riding bulls

I am from a small town with big ideas

From long, loving hugs

          To sweet, short ones

I am from the grunge sound

          Of Nirvana and 4 Non Blondes

I am from Kurt Cobain concerts

          And from Onyx blaring through the Walkman

I am from Def Leppard

Days of listening to 45’s

using my hairbrush as a microphone

Old school music and fancy car shows

          Never dull or boring, a bunch of Chatty Cathys

Family of blue and green eyes

I am from weekends spent in tomato fields

          Hoping that a sweet pecan pie was hot on the stove when I got home

I am from jars of lightning bugs we’d collect at sunset

From the political disagreements in the dining room

          washed down with sweet tea

I am from big meals and bigger hearts

I am from the sound of music and joined hands

From sitting in lonely hospitals

From calls to get a cat out of a tree

          To taking a tree off of a house

I am from the feet running off the starting line

          To oars gliding against the calm, cool water

To Friday night soccer

          To Saturday morning cheers

Wrestling instead of pageants

I’m from the smell of nicotine from lit cigarettes

to Mom and Dad smoking with the windows up

I’m from the 60’s and 70’s peace movement

And pinning dead bugs on cardboard

I am from old school hip hop and sick beats

And watching Netflix in my bed

I’m from soccer every weekend

From hustling to first base

          And playing infield

Feeling muscles getting stronger with every throw

I am from summer vacations in the OBX

From barefoot summer nights on the beach

I’m from cold ocean breezes and city smog

Warm, cozy and away from the freezing winter

Jumping on the trampoline in the cool rain

Blue water and chlorine

I am from standing on the pier

From the scent of freshly baked bread out of the oven

And dunking Oreos,

          But making sure the milk doesn’t drip

On

the

couch

I am from the smell of Lysol and bleach

I am from Sunday morning church

From fussy pajamas on Christmas Eve

From working hard and playing harder

Hand-me-downs were a necessity for some

From the smell of pasta made on Italian streets

From hot tea with too much sugar

I am from beautiful outcomes and tragic mistakes

I am from a caring grandmother

I am from the highs and lows of life

Motivated by my mother’s and father’s words

The dream is still alive

From parental love that will never fade

Sister to Jesus’s disciple, Buddha’s enlightened, and the lack thereof

And making my mark upon the world

          And touching the hearts of people

I’m from never forgetting

that family is everything

          and always sticking together

For they are

          My key

Where Tanner's From

If this post's title sounds familiar, it's probably because you remember an entry from a while back, Where Malik's From.   See the original writing assignment here.

I'm just stopping by to remind all of us that writers bloom throughout the year.   I get a whole lot of flowers in September, but I also get some children who are seeds, bulbs and tubers...and planted at different times.   That's pretty normal in 8th grade.

There's a whole lot of research about boys and language arts instruction, so go ahead and read it.   Don't discount what you know to be true from firsthand experiences either.   There's not one magic key that unlocks a joy of writing for boys.   The young men who are most successful in becoming writers with my style of teaching have these commonalities:

They listen to mini-lessons on writing skills.

They practice these skills in small bits of writing.

They then work these skills into larger pieces of writing.

They welcome feedback.

They recognize that writing is a craft.

They get downright metacognitive about their use of language.

They believe that the world around them is to be examined.

They know that a final draft means edits and revisions, not simply neatness.

Before you think that I am a "my way or the highway" kind of writing teacher, I'd like to say that I don't think that I am.   I can't be certain, but I am pretty sure that if I were reviewing student writing with Stephen King, Anne Lamott and Natalie Goldberg-- we'd at least recognize and agree upon bad writing when we saw it.   And...yeah...it's totally okay to see some bad writing from 8th graders.   I mean, they're 8th graders.   Sheesh.

I center September around some of Laura Robb's mini lessons for writers and Nancie Atwell's lesson on narrative leads.   If I can get kids using specific nouns, strong verbs, a variety of sentence starters, PARAGRAPHS, effective narrative leads and a unified topic...I feel pretty ding dang good about that.

(Pardon my shouting.   I'm still teaching perfectly kind children how to paragraph narratives.   It's December.   It hurts.   My eyes are bleeding from the dreaded BIG, FAT PARAGRAPH.   I might write a song about it.   Never mind.)

Back to Tanner.   He came into class on day one with a strong work ethic, unmatched tenacity, a kind spirit and some sharp writing skills.   Even so, his mom is pretty impressed with his current interest in getting all of his words in the right spots.   I sure do wish I could just let you see all of his various writing work from this year because he's a perfect example of a talented, developing writer who fits all of the qualities I listed above.   

Check this out.   Remember the two-sentence journal assignment I borrowed from a class I took at William and Mary?  Here's one of Tanner's entries, "It's the time of year when the smell of corn chaff and diesel fuel fill the air.  Visibility soon becomes low as the farmer takes the combine for another round."   You better believe I asked his permission to write that gem down for other grasshoppers to see.   It was feng shui perfection on the white board.

Here's where Tanner's from:

I’m from sunglasses in the rearview,

From tie straps and duct tape,

I am from eggs in the nesting box,

(Dry and Warm with a surprise inside)

I’m from orchard grass,

The yellow poplar,

Whose leaves fall every year just for me to collect.

I’m from fishbites and pellet guns,

From Pride and Horton,

I’m from the bluecollars and the hardheads,

From “How ya whole family doin’?”

I’m from “American born and Southern by the grace of God.”

I’m from Genesis and Communion,

3 inch slugs and ram rods,

From the man who died for our sins,

And the 10 commandments.

From the gray uniform stained with blood,

Whose owner long gone from Earth,

Waits patiently in the Promised Land for the ones who honor him most.

Where Malik's From

Not so long ago I told you about a poetry exercise called Where I'm From.   I found it in Nancie Atwell's book Naming the World: A Year of Poems and Lessons.   I have to tell you that it is my favorite writing activity that I have ever done with my students...ever.  

Why?   The students dug deep.   They thought about themselves.   They talked to their families.   They revised.   They edited.   Many even allowed me to make copies of their poems to put in a binder to share with classmates and teachers.   Some were asked to publish their work in the school literary magazine.   I wanted to publish one here for you to enjoy as well.

A big part of what I like about Atwell's book is the fact that she has published student samples alongside the bona-fide, gen-u-ine poem that inspired the lesson.   The poem I chose to share with you, with his mother's permission, is written by a young man who has a natural ear for language.  At the same time, he would agree with Thomas Mann's statement, "A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people."  

Malik is about the craft.   His poem was a process.   Believe it.   I was there.   His first draft was flat but intriguing.   I know when he's "in the zone."   But I hadn't seen it yet with this activity.   It took having the poem knocking around in his brain for a day for the pieces to start falling into the right places.   He opened with a general line about slavery and moved quickly to the next subject.   I had a feeling that there was more there, but he wasn't able to come up with it until he had a chance to talk with family.   He did.   The poem really opened up after that.   See what you think.

“where i’m from”

i’m from slaves working in the hot fields of gloucester
to whites only and piles of found jewelry.
i’m from farming crops and hard work to
“when will we be free from this misery?”
i’m from families being torn apart
to  wondering if relatives will be found,
dead or alive.

i’m from newport news to a family of 5
i’m from "that’s dope" and billy jean,
to the greatest love of all.
i’m from the the jeffersons and moving to the eastside,
to finally getting a piece of the pie.
i’m from the sweet taste of butterfingers
to playing with barbies and kens.
i’m from the witches and mysteries
to playing softball in the warm dusty summer of ’90.
i’m from stacks of poems and books,
to barking dogs and purple soda.
i’m from a ripping eye and pain,
to doctors working to fix it.

i’m from a lost boy living in hawaii
to a military woman with no children.
i’m from that boy found and loved
to that woman who’s now a mom.
i’m from a calm, peaceful place
to the concrete jungle of new york.
i’m from winters spent in maine
to the sunny city of los angeles.
i’m from the flow and rhyme of a
lonely soul,
to slick rick reading
a
fairy tale.

Where I'm From

I've yet to even scratch the surface of the beauty that is Nancie Atwell's Naming the World: A Year of Poems and Lessons.   Today I continued an exercise from the "Your Life" section of the book.  

Ms. Atwell provides a copy of poet George Ella Lyon's poem, "Where I'm From," as well as two poems written by inspired middle schoolers.   We read all three poems last Friday, and I sent students home with the intergenerational questionnaire.   Because of the nature of eighth graders and weekends, many people did not have the interviews done by Monday, so it took until Tuesday until we could really get down to the business of writing.   And, no, everyone had not completed their interviews by Tuesday either.

Today I shared the poem that I wrote based on Lyon's original.   You already know that it's good to make yourself vulnerable to your students by sharing your own writing.   They generally respond with kindness and respect; it also gets them into their poets' groove.  
Please understand that the intent of the lesson is to borrow Lyon's riff, to mimic her style and to mirror her repetition.   This is not a lesson in how to plagiarize.   Make sure you click the above link to Lyon's poem, so you can see her patterns in my draft below.  

I am from Sundays after church,

from sweet tea and Formica tables

enchanted by my grandmother’s blessings.

I am from the vinyl records inside the garage.

(Silent, waiting,

they held secret spells.)

I am from the tulip tree,

the summer garden

whose crusty, baked soil  between rows of corn

crumbles gently under bare feet. 

I’m from Number, please  and  Promenade.  

I’m from dusty circuses and shimmering skylines

from tobacco leaves in barn rafters

from flowing rivers near textile mills.

I’m from both Carolinas

     from limestone and sisterhoods. 

I’m from dipped snuff and tinned sardines,

jets of sawdust that tickle noses.

I’m from wires pulsing with electricity

   stretching across the South. 

From the body bag of the local boy

     my father escorted home from Vietnam.

I’m from a hand to hold and shirts off backs,

from promises kept

rooted in both love and duty.

Some students will need your help to mine for information.   I grew up minutes away from all four of my grandparents and was a curious child.   It was easy for me to tap into all of those years of informal "research" that I completed before writing this poem.  

I drew a simple family tree on the board, and many writers used that as a way to brainstorm.   Although their homework was to interview one person using the questionnaire, their poem should include anyone from their family line.   Steps, adoption, blood...it doesn't matter.   Your students can decide who is or is not family to them.

Please be aware that some of your students have only painfully dark memories of their families.   Some will be ready to write, some won't.   Encourage children who make an attempt to tackle such a raw topic.   Give an alternative assignment for those students who just can't face or make sense of their family relationships yet.