Every year at this time, students come out of their shells---not like snails peeking out, but like nuts cracking open.
Could be the weather.
Though there is still a foot or so of snow on the ground here in 'sconsin, the air has changed. In "Walden" Thoreau describes the coming of spring as a "memorable crisis." Anybody who works in a school knows what he means. Spring break, prom, and graduation are monopolizing everyone's minds---while the looming AP tests, the ACT and final exams are not yet in any acknowledged realm of existence.
Could also be that students have become accustomed to me and know my limits, so they feel comfortable extending them a bit.
One of my rules at the beginning of the year is not to write on the white board with my markers without asking first. Last week I hid the markers because one day the front board became a grafitti wall. Colorful and school appropriate though it was, with alligators and penguins and messages to other classmates, it used up a lot of marker juice and took awhile to clean. And, even worse, now that students have discovered that I'm not a Disney fan---silly, obnoxious Disney characters, princesses and such rot, regularly surface on my board like shiny, smiling, smarmy worms after a summer rain.
Last week I handed back papers, and Chris said to me, "Mrs. Kies, what's this?" I went to his desk, thinking he was disgruntled over a quiz score or something. "See?" He pointed at the top of his paper. "Yeah? It's a smiley face. You too old for those, or something?" "But, Mrs. Kies. That's mean." I asked, "What are you talking about, Chris?" "What are you doing giving me a one-eyed smiley face? See?" He pointed again. The class laughed and I turned red when I finally got what he was implying. "Real funny, Chris," I said.
The ensuing conversation revealed that he had lost his eye at age nine when the hooked end of a bungee cord struck him smack in the face. Of course, he told the rest of his classmates at lunch that I had given him a one-eyed smiley face, and I was plagued with jabs for the two afternoon classes.
One student in my AP class has hardly said a word all year. Not even to complain about quizzes or reading assignments. Lately, however, he pipes up regularly saying things like all the authors and characters in our women's unit were "crazy ladies" and that One Hundred Years of Solitude consists mainly of beastiality and incest. Though he's got a point, I find his sudden urge to spout these comments after months of quiet compliance somewhat weird.
Gotta be the cracking of the pond from the longer days and increased sunlight that Thoreau described. Or, hormones maybe? Ah, the topic of my next blog.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Teaching Trials
Part of the women's literature unit that I teach in AP Language and Composition consists of students performing a mock trial based on the play by Susan Glaspell called Trifles, also written as a short story called "A Jury of her Peers."
Well, this year's trial took the cake---really the doughnut. Let me explain.
I give the play to the five characters to read so they know who they're supposed to be and what they are supposed to know. This year the prosecution team got a bit overzealous and looked up the play on line and found out some things they normally wouldn't know if they obtained their information "legally" by interviewing and questioning the witnesses. That darned Internet!
But, the trial really came together, and everyone played his or her part magnificently. The two judges, who in other years needed some coaching throughout the trial, knew exactly what to do and how to proceed because they had actually read the packet on court room procedures I had given them. They were so believeable I felt GUILTY for laughing at the young man who played the Sheriff, whose outfit was outta here (Afro wig, plaid shirt, and leather stars and stripes vest), and so was his testimony, referring to a significant others as "honey bunnies" and insinuating he was prone to having accidents in his pants at the sight of blood.
All the while the characters were on the stand dressed in period clothes (thanks to the costume design crew) proficiently proclaiming the facts of the case, the two bailiffs were stuffing their faces with powdered sugar doughnuts, their mouths smeared in white like the people who do the milk commericials, only all the way around, not just delicately on the upper lip.
On a dramatic note, the attorneys knew their stuff and asked poignant questions that made some witnesses squirm, like the defendent who sought the mercy of the jury through tears and irratic sewing, and the farmer who blurted out an unrecognizeable phrase our of sheer panic.
I know. Sounds crazy. But, if you read the play, the trial would have made sense---mostly---except for the end where the bailiff got stabbed over a doughnut.
OK, so it was crazy---in a very good way. Students learned the basics of courtroom trial procedures, successful cooperative planning, character portrayal, improvising, debating, and doughnut dunking. (Hot chocolate was available after the performance.)
Well, this year's trial took the cake---really the doughnut. Let me explain.
I give the play to the five characters to read so they know who they're supposed to be and what they are supposed to know. This year the prosecution team got a bit overzealous and looked up the play on line and found out some things they normally wouldn't know if they obtained their information "legally" by interviewing and questioning the witnesses. That darned Internet!
But, the trial really came together, and everyone played his or her part magnificently. The two judges, who in other years needed some coaching throughout the trial, knew exactly what to do and how to proceed because they had actually read the packet on court room procedures I had given them. They were so believeable I felt GUILTY for laughing at the young man who played the Sheriff, whose outfit was outta here (Afro wig, plaid shirt, and leather stars and stripes vest), and so was his testimony, referring to a significant others as "honey bunnies" and insinuating he was prone to having accidents in his pants at the sight of blood.
All the while the characters were on the stand dressed in period clothes (thanks to the costume design crew) proficiently proclaiming the facts of the case, the two bailiffs were stuffing their faces with powdered sugar doughnuts, their mouths smeared in white like the people who do the milk commericials, only all the way around, not just delicately on the upper lip.
On a dramatic note, the attorneys knew their stuff and asked poignant questions that made some witnesses squirm, like the defendent who sought the mercy of the jury through tears and irratic sewing, and the farmer who blurted out an unrecognizeable phrase our of sheer panic.
I know. Sounds crazy. But, if you read the play, the trial would have made sense---mostly---except for the end where the bailiff got stabbed over a doughnut.
OK, so it was crazy---in a very good way. Students learned the basics of courtroom trial procedures, successful cooperative planning, character portrayal, improvising, debating, and doughnut dunking. (Hot chocolate was available after the performance.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)