Let's Get Digital.

Why Digital Writing Matters.

The Exponential Times video never fails to shock. I remember my mouth hitting my lab table watching the 2007 version as an intro to population control in my AP Environmental Science class. My seniors last year expressed similar shock to the more updated one. However, one message hasn't changed (although the statistics certainly have): shift happens.

As such, the authors are correct in asserting that the time has come for students to employ a broader variety of writing in the classroom. I look at the author's suggestions and think about how I can employ digital writing in my classroom.

"A pair of high school teachers—one English teacher and one social studies teacher—plan a multiweek unit in which their students will engage in community-based research and repre- sent their work as a digital story or short film at a final exhibi- tion night. Students begin by generating topics and questions that they would like to ask members of their community and posting those ideas to a project wiki, one shared by multiple sections of these two teachers’ classes throughout the day. Over the course of the project, students collect artifacts with digital tools such as voice recorders and video cameras, documenting their work on the project wiki. Once the videos are produced, a process that takes nearly two weeks of gathering, organizing, editing, and merging media, students celebrate by inviting the community members they interviewed to the school for the exhibition night. Eventually, many videos are posted on a video- sharing site to allow people from outside the community to see what the students have discovered in their research" (10). 

The idea of demonstrating knowledge in a new way is certainly a compelling one. If I could, I'd certainly have students completing projects like this. However, as a low-income school, struggles occur. We don't have access to cameras and recorders. While students do have access to laptops and can create blogs, pod-casts, and even iMovies based on still images, they are not gaining equal access to what may be a truly multimodal classroom. How, then, can we work to ensure that students regardless of income have access to the possibilities in education that multimodal writing can offer? Without doubt this is the future of English Language instruction, but what can we do to ensure yet another generation of students won't be left behind? 

Multimodality and You

New Times for Multimodality?

Argument 1: Literacies Are Changing, and So Must School Literacy Curricula

Article, preach. Someone would have to be taking daily doses of crazy-pills or be a Tea Party activist to deny that times are changing. Bob Dylan wrote it, we are living it. We don't make students separate by gender, women actually go to school on the same terms as men, and we don't beat students with rulers because they fail to recite the Aeneid in its original Latin. Students have access to a slew of new technology. My parents talked about sitting in school watching "In Cold Blood" on film strips and later typing up responses on typewriters. By the time I was in high school, a DVD had been procured as had computers which allowed for new fonts and styles for writing. At this point in American education, even DVDs are obsolete. Students reading Capote could feasibly do a virtual walk-through of the Clutter farmhouse and tour Holcomb, Kansas getting the same view as Capote and Lee got when they interviewed its residents in 1959. Then they blog about it. They send out a tweet from the perspective of a Holcomb citizen after the murders, about Dick Haddock and Perry Smith going on trial, about the eventual execution. The traditional essay on printed paper is almost a relic. It doesn't need much help making its way to the museum. The ante has been upped and as such, technology and literacies change. 

Argument 2: Youths Bring Multimodal Practices to School

 As previously viewed, students are no longer content with Microsoft Word, Powerpoint and the occasional in-class movie. Students spend their time engaging in literacy on a constant basis through text messaging, writing Facebook posts, reading Buzzfeed lists and articles. These practices, simply put, can be sucked dry of any fun by applying them to educational content! It does a lot of the leg work for teachers and allows students the opportunity to look at familiar literacies mixed with new literacies to round out a student's education about the different purposes and styles of writing. 

Argument 3: Multimodal Practice Can Reframe At-Risk Students as Learners of Promise

There are just some students we have to love to keep from killing. One child in particular walks into my classroom every day with a smile on his face that would match, as my Nanna Shook would say, "The cat that ate the canary." For a great many days, I simply assumed the child's default mode was destruction. A productive and silent classroom meant that he was either absent, sleepy, or kicked out. I washed my hands of him and his crap and would whisper to myself "It's just until June" when he would randomly fall out of his desk or loudly ask questions that had just been answered. Yet when reading Art Spiegelman's Maus, his attitude towards class changed. He was suddenly silent, engaged and the first one to sit down and instruct his classmates to "Shut the hell up" so he could read. To him, Maus was not an ordinary school book. He'd had his time with those and only associated them with failure and something he wasn't "good at." However, the multimodal text offered him a fresh take on what it meant to read and be a literate person. 

Who Will Save Us from the Web?

Set in Stone or Set in Motion? 

Bolter (1991) wrote, “The shift to the computer will make writing more flexible, but it will also threaten the definitions of good writing and careful reading that have been fostered by the technique of printing” (p. 2).

Oh Bolter....It's like looking into a crystal ball from the vantage point of 1991. I worry about this myself when I have students write blog posts and create Facebook pages for characters. I find myself feeling that good literacy is dying and that just writing something now allows for people to feel that that writing is automatically of quality. The other half of the time, I feel myself complaining about the music these kids listen to and how low they wear their pants and screaming at the little trollymogs to get off my lawn. 

Yet the question remains, how do we properly utilize technology in the classroom and foster a system of new literacy while not necessarily sacrificing the beauty of print and the importance that it has when teaching literacy? 

The solution is by no means to pull technology from the equation. To not use computers in the classroom is like sitting on a platinum mine and refusing to dig because some of the platinum might be tarnished. Obviously multimedia offers students a different set of skills and the web is something children would much rather by using than gazing at a printed text. However, how can we as educators assure that standards are upheld while still teaching students that different contexts call for different types of literacies? Should things such as traditional essays be tossed out for "life maps" and "visual essays?" How do we blend this? 

Again, I fluctuate about how to properly use technology and this article only tossed me deeper into the maze. 

Kittle- Chapter 7

Kittle's exploration of student-selected topics and evocative writing is one that I imagine strikes a nerve with teachers everywhere largely due to the commonality of this task. I myself just spent a few days with my junior students discussing personal statements and finding those moments that offer a snap-shot of who my students are as the fabulous people they are. The responses were diverse. One young woman wrote about how she hates being stereotyped as an actress of color because she fears it has and will continue to exclude her from classical drama (which is her favorite). One student wrote about surgery, another about her first conflict with her mother's strong religious beliefs. I've seen first-hand the passion that comes from stories that mean a lot to us. However, I've also seen the failure that can come from a student shaking his/her head and stating, "I don't know what to write about."

This miniature crisis is exactly what Kittle's chapter was able to help me respond to. The idea of creating story boards and opening up the topics of conversation to include student choice offers a broader field for topic selection and can, in turn, open up the flood-gates to student writing. Particularly the idea of having students make maps of their childhood, list important ideas or words, and other forms of brainstorming offers the chance for struggling students to flesh out ideas and jump into a story that is meaningful and sincere on top of being organized.

This process is one that I will replicate should I ever be in the position again to teach students creative non-fiction writing. It seems to get to the heart of students' struggles in writing and offers quick responses to "I don't know" while still balancing students' rights to not always know right away what moment defines them.

Multi-Modal Research (Caroll and Bailey)

To compliment Bailey's and Carroll's introductory scenario, I offer my own anecdote about student research.

Picture it. My classroom. Last Year.

My students are settling in on computers to start "research projects." The term is loosely applied considering that it did little to establish specific resources that could be used, featured no scaffolds to enhance student performance, and required all students to answer the same question. The topic was compelling. We'd spent 20 minutes two days earlier debating the legality of the veil in Persepolis and connecting it to the criminalization of its wearing in many European nations. However, I was shocked to see my students staring blankly at the prompt with little desire to do anything but waste time browsing through news articles without bothering to write anything down.

"C'mon!" I'd shouted. "You guys were so into this the other day!"

"Mr. Shook," stated Monique (she was never shy about voice how people felt). "Essays are boring."

I had, simply put, always associated research projects with essays. The two were one in the same. I had not experienced Kristen's paradigm shift or her discovery of "new literacies" (79) to integrate into her curriculum. However, I now totally see the value. This year, instead of an essay, student presented their research on Romeo and Juliet as Prezis complete with music and documentary clips. The result was similar to the article and my role shifted as student responsibility and choice increased. Like the authors, I found, " a balance between allowing students to create their own path of inquiry and providing the guidance they need to juggle all the parts of the research process as they read and write for information (80)." 

The final research prompt, offering students multiple options for activities is the next step. This will allow students to use research to produce a variety of tasks (such as children's books, graphic novels, blogs, etc.) In fact, this is the model out senior research project is based on next year in which students must complete a task from each of four multimodal genres. We'll see how this goes. While engagement will certainly increase, some bugs will need to be dealt with before it transitions into a fine-tuned machine. 

 

Evocative Writing: Five Memory Poems

The following poems represent the steps of my life, evoking vivid images that for some reason or another disturbed or interested me enough to commit them to memory and involve my memories of living in the south which could be simultaneously beautiful and shrouded in a hideous history of oppression.

Poem One:

“How I Learned to Swim”
The echo of splashing water, refreshing like iced cherry coke
Tosses about behind the thick walls of brick and marble.
The concrete path to the pool (ancient and grey, cracked
With lines of green where plants moss or perhaps small clovers
have grown to seek the rays of unrelenting August sunshine) is
surrounded by deadly brown grass, poking hard and sharp
from over-mowing and the wrong combination of pesticides.
I walk in the brief shade of the arches, grateful for my mother’s guiding hand,
(moist, slick and smelling like sunblock) and her diamond engagement ring pressing
Into my flesh while I carry the plastic basket with my aqua blue beach towel in the
Other.
The black and white umbrellas hovering clean above the smooth tiles offer refuge
To parents and nannies who preferred to enjoy the water from afar.
I, instead, gazed at the turquoise lapping against the metal railings,
Jewel-like and precious against the scorch of late summer.
Suddenly, the towel slips from my hand and I turn to pick it up.
It is here I see the words, old and etched into a concrete block above the door.
“This entrance is reserved for members of the colored race.”
I tug at my mother’s skirt, pointing at the words.
She pauses for a moment, explains it is from a long time ago, tussles my hair around my scalp,
Slightly pink from the sun and walks towards a vacant umbrella.
While I stare into the vast blueness before me.

Poem Two:

“Rattles”
I would see the two of them only once in my life,
The pair with grey beards and drinking Mountain Dew
From glass bottles (it was 1996, for God’s sake). They were
Old friends of my great-grandfather who sat smiling
Constantly in a green plastic yard chair and who I seriously
Doubted could remember his own name by this point. The
Dust broke from the gravel and gave their red Ford pick-up
An almost religious sensation as if its bed held something
More than a dead rattlesnake. Patsy Cline was playing from
The car radio where I played horseshoes with my sister and
Cousins and the sweetness of her voice seemed to melt like
A Mars Bar in the teasing heat of April. I suppose the pair
Intended to amuse us, dropping the back of the truck to
Reveal the corpse of a timber rattle snake, shot cleanly at the
Neck so that the head lay only a few feet away. The older of the
Men smiled and I could see tobacco juice stains across his teeth.
The head had captivated me. Bleeding, dangerous, and full of secrets
I would have been better off without. “Hey,” said the younger. “Want
To see a magic trick?” He did not wait for the answer and began poking
The severed head with a metal rod. A meager flop, then the sudden
Burst of an open mouth, the color of clean cotton held against a wound
And the magic was done. The last burst of life had sailed from the now
Open mouth of a creature whose mere presence meant death to me.


Poem Three:

“The World Series”
I retreat from the galaxy of wires and machines,
The sterile glow of numbers and beeps which
Monitor the heart rate of the dying man.
I did not share his blood. I only knew him as
A neighbor. And yet my mother held his hand,
My father gave him ice chips from a silver bowl.
I doubted he knew where he was.
A larger room waited just behind the door.
It was cool and smelled like medicine and
Some sort of chemicals sold in a can to brighten up a room.
She sat in front of the television, harmless, eyes closed
A Braves cap snug over her silver hair, clinging to her scalp
In thin wisps. A tray of food sits in front of her.
Half-eaten meatloaf, untouched mashed potatoes and pudding.
I ask to sit and she makes no reply.
The top of the fourth passes without ceremony.
I never liked baseball but there is nothing to do but wait.
Nothing passes the time but the sound of leather cracking against
Wooden bats and occasional trips to a vending machine
For peanut butter crackers and a cherry coke.
It is October, but the men sweat heavily through the glass.
I struggle to hear, but am afraid of waking her.
It is the bottom of the eighth before I realize it.
A nurse in white tennis shoes and blue pants responds quickly,
Wheeling her away. He returns in ten minutes, takes a seat
On the sofa next to me, spooning chocolate custard into his mouth
From a plastic cup.
“That’s better,” he sighs. “What’s the score?”

Poem Four:

“How I Learned to Drink Beer”
I still remember the forbidden foam
Floating like low tide on top of the amber
Liquid. I am four years old and my great aunt
Has fallen asleep in her favorite chair. Her hair
Tumbles like cigar smoke down her cheeks
And I determine she won’t miss one sip.
My lips pull back from the bitterness and
She sits up laughing in sharp gasps and
Grabs my wrist with her claws (sharp,
Like some avian predator).
The oak shines too bright from the bar
And I think of coffins with expensive brass
Handles. “I get off at 9.”
The bar-tender has written this on the coaster
But I doubt he knows I’m only 15. The sips
Slide down my throat against my will and with
Each spasm of muscle, I feel myself age into
Someone who wants nothing more than a nap
In the high grasses.
I order this beer by my own choice. It’s a vital practice,
I am told. A rite of passage for the 21st birthday, like killing an elk.
I take what I am given and pray that it will be over soon.
“Fuck yourself,” I scream into my brain. “You think that if
You play their game that they won’t come for you.”
I know myself that it is true and
Concentrate on the white and blue Christmas lights
Damning me in the reflection of the brown glass bottle.

Poem Five:

“The Christian Quarter”
I had been warned the pavement was slick
And my shoes had little grip on its surface,
A stubborn ice that would not melt in Jerusalem’s
Heat. I had stopped to look at coins, pressed
And punched with holes. “Palestine, 1947”
One whispers to me in a voice hidden
Deep within ancient bronze. Across
The alley, you too gaze as spices (mint tea,
Sage), Turkish delight packed into metal boxes,
And yards of fabric which unraveled would
Suffocate the merchant who smiles calmly,
Her lips wrapped around a cup of coffee.
Across the wall, we hear a call to prayer
And I feel a tap on my hand. I follow the bones
Up the arm into the purple flesh, cracked and
Concrete-looking wrapped around the face
Of a leper. His eyes hide pink and frantic,
Holding secrets and sadness in the same
Pools of blood. “Where is the kingdom?”
He asks but he knows I don’t know the answer.
“Where is the kingdom?” I shrug and pull away,
Tightening the muscles on my face to show no
Reaction. I gaze down the street of crafted bronze
And the cries of merchants looking for their next sale
But you are nowhere to be seen.

Scarlett was a Yankee: Life and Times of a Georgia Runaway

Life Map

April 16, 1990: Birth

1990-1994: Little of memory. My younger sister was born and was alright in her own way.

1994: Enrollment in Presbyterian Preschool. Calvinist theology is new to me and I develop a fear of death and organized religion.

1995: Enrollment in kindergarten...I already knew how to read, write, and count. I knew that Goldilocks got away with it and that breaking and entering has no consequence if you are a teen who climbs a big plant into the sky.

1995-2001: Elementary school years which involved a love of reading (my favorite books were The Wind in the Willows, Little House on the Prairie, Hamilton's Mythology," Charlotte's Web, The Diary of Anne Frank, and A Series of Unfortunate Events). I loved ghost stories more than anything else and won my first award for a short story about a haunted house as judged by a jury of my 8 year-old peers.

2001- 2004: Middle school. I had a streak of blonde in my hair. I would be criminal if I didn't spare you further details about this period in my life. Picasso had his Blue Period, Meryl Streep had She Devil. I had middle school.

2004-2008: High school. And on the third day, I found studio art and musical theatre.

2008-2012: College. Sparked controversy for defacing pro-life chalk graffiti (no, really). Learned to major in English, went to South Africa. Discovered dating.

2012- Present: Teach for America...Taught for America? It doesn't sound quite right. *

This also includes as 2013 trip to Israel which had a profound impact on my sense of self. I'll attempt to capture this in my evocative writing.