Have you heard of hyper-miling? At least, I think that's what it's called. Basically, you try to squeeze every possible mile out of a gallon of gas. Some of the best can manage 100+ miles per gallon (at least, I think that's what I read in Reader's Digest). Unbelievable! Of course, there are drawbacks.
For instance, luxury. Forget about rolling down the windows or cranking up the AC on a steamy day. No. Doing either would reduce gas mileage either by increasing the drag on the vehicle or upping the fuel consumption. Instead, don a cold pack and sweat it out. After all, you ARE saving money by conserving fuel (well, stretching it anyway).
And don't even think about arriving at your destination on time, unless of course you tack on an extra 30 minutes to your estimated travel time. See, for hyper-miling to really work, you have to be able to coast, which means that you probably won't maintain the 50 mph you usually drive.
As crazy as all of this sounds, I thought I'd give it a shot, especially considering gas prices nowadays. Granted, I don't drive too far, and don't have to fill up my car very often, but I still want to stretch a tank's worth of gas, so why not give it a shot? If anything, it's almost been like a personal challenge to see exactly how far I can go before stepping on the gas. Unfortunately, I don't think I'll achieve 100+, but that's a lofty goal for this area.
See, just as I let off the gas, I glance in the rearview mirror for traffic, praying that no one is behind me. Good so far. Ahhh. Coming up to a stop sign. Can I make it without having to tap the gas? Yes. Okay, depress the gas pedal and continue to the crest of the hill, then release. Excellent. A quick view in the mirror and... drat. I'm being followed. Okay, well, this other car is about five houses back, so I don't have to step on the gas just yet. If I could only make the next stop sign. Another peek. It's closer. C'mon, the stop sign's just around this corner. The speedometer's dropping to 20-18-16. The stop sign's just 200 meters away. 150. 100. The car... is right behind me. Darn. And the driver seems to be in a hurry. *sigh* I step on the gas, traveling 25 meters at 25 mph only to slam on the breaks at the last second. Looks like I won't be setting any records today.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Friday, May 23, 2008
Poem sketching
Because of the testing schedule, I purposefully scheduled a "play" day for my sophomores, and I'm glad I did. By the time I had them in class today, I'm sure their brains were fried. They simply needed a chance to play with poetry (our current unit) rather than analyze it.
Since I don't know much about various forms of poetry or ways of "playing" with it, I asked a colleague (a creative writing teacher) for some ideas. Though I had heard of poem sketching (a technique devised by Sandy Lyne), I had never actually employed it in any of my classes. I was truly impressed by the poems that my students wrote. Truly.
Poem sketching involves taking a set of four words and combining them into sentences that look and "feel" like poetry. There are a few guidelines (re-combine word groups if desired; change the forms of the words; write three or more sentences; don't rhyme) but they really work to free up the poet rather than constrain him.
Students wrote poems about high school romances, a soldier's sacrifice, and childhood memories. If only I had collected them, I would have included some here.
Since they were having so much fun, I thought I'd join them. Looking at the list, I chose the word group of "sleeve, hut, bowl, tears". And here is my poem sketch:
She sits cross-legged in her hut,
a bowl in her lap.
Cornmeal clings to her fingers,
caking them,
but she's indifferent to the mess.
The tears quietly slip down her cheeks,
dripping into the shima,
until she wipes them away with her sleeve.
A poem sketch doesn't have to be perfect or polished; it's a sketch, a work in progress. The idea is to create an image using language rather than ink to capture the moment. The beauty is that the poet isn't limited to one image based on a particular group of words; each sketch is different, a personal reflection of the poet.
Since I don't know much about various forms of poetry or ways of "playing" with it, I asked a colleague (a creative writing teacher) for some ideas. Though I had heard of poem sketching (a technique devised by Sandy Lyne), I had never actually employed it in any of my classes. I was truly impressed by the poems that my students wrote. Truly.
Poem sketching involves taking a set of four words and combining them into sentences that look and "feel" like poetry. There are a few guidelines (re-combine word groups if desired; change the forms of the words; write three or more sentences; don't rhyme) but they really work to free up the poet rather than constrain him.
Students wrote poems about high school romances, a soldier's sacrifice, and childhood memories. If only I had collected them, I would have included some here.
Since they were having so much fun, I thought I'd join them. Looking at the list, I chose the word group of "sleeve, hut, bowl, tears". And here is my poem sketch:
She sits cross-legged in her hut,
a bowl in her lap.
Cornmeal clings to her fingers,
caking them,
but she's indifferent to the mess.
The tears quietly slip down her cheeks,
dripping into the shima,
until she wipes them away with her sleeve.
A poem sketch doesn't have to be perfect or polished; it's a sketch, a work in progress. The idea is to create an image using language rather than ink to capture the moment. The beauty is that the poet isn't limited to one image based on a particular group of words; each sketch is different, a personal reflection of the poet.
Public school entitlement
I thought this week would never end. The hours, minutes, and even seconds just dragged by, reluctantly noting the passage of time, despite my best efforts to hasten it along. Granted, I've been anxiously awaiting the end of the school year (only 14 more days!) since April, but this week has been especially painful. But that's what testing will do to a school teacher.
Yes, testing. The bane of so many school children's existence. Forget about the knowledge that they've demonstrated, exhibited, over the year through authentic assessments; their entire school year hinges on just one test (well, probably more than one depending on the grade level and class schedule). How sad is that? Whoever thought that one test could truly determine what someone has learned over an entire year? Even worse, many of the tests are comprehension and knowledge based; students aren't challenged to think about a problem, offer a solution, or argue an opinion. Instead, the tests force them to locate the one correct answer.
What kind of society are we creating? From my perspective as an educator, the future is discouraging. Over the course of my nine years in the classroom, I have seen students think less and less. That's not to say that they don't, for some do depending on the individual and on the class. Unfortunately, though, my students are less willing to think when I ask them to. Take my juniors, for instance. Often they'll have some sort of analysis activity followed by whole class discussion. Or, the entire class might be discussion based on some thought-provoking statements. At least, I had hoped to have discussion. Too bad most of them look at me, waiting for the one correct answer. Maybe but a handful will actually take a risk, raise a hand, and share an opinion. It's almost as if nobody knows how to think; as if they've been told sometime during their education that their opinions are irrelevant; all that matters is what's on the test. It's not as if they can't think, for they have and do share good ideas on occasion. I just wonder if they don't understand the importance of thinking.
Because of the tremendous amount of pressure these young people feel to pass their tests, an already long week seemed even longer. Due to testing, we were on a modified schedule which meant two two-hour classes a day, one 90-minute class (which is what we're accustomed to), and one fifteen-minute class (which is basically a joke). Add to it a mixed-up day (the periods weren't in their usual order so that we could accommodate all the tests), and it's no wonder everyone was anxious for today to be over. Considering that students have been testing for the past two-weeks (that includes the AP tests), I'm not surprised that most of them have shut down (intellectually). Since their course credit (and thus graduation) hinges on passing the test, it's no wonder they assume that they don't have to think (translation: work) for the remainder of the school year (did I mention it's only 14 more days?). I mean, if the state says that they've demonstrated understanding and knowledge of the particular subject matter, then why should they listen to the teacher and complete the remaining assignments? Aren't those just extra work?
Again, learning for the sake of learning is dying. And we teachers are fighting a losing battle.
Yes, testing. The bane of so many school children's existence. Forget about the knowledge that they've demonstrated, exhibited, over the year through authentic assessments; their entire school year hinges on just one test (well, probably more than one depending on the grade level and class schedule). How sad is that? Whoever thought that one test could truly determine what someone has learned over an entire year? Even worse, many of the tests are comprehension and knowledge based; students aren't challenged to think about a problem, offer a solution, or argue an opinion. Instead, the tests force them to locate the one correct answer.
What kind of society are we creating? From my perspective as an educator, the future is discouraging. Over the course of my nine years in the classroom, I have seen students think less and less. That's not to say that they don't, for some do depending on the individual and on the class. Unfortunately, though, my students are less willing to think when I ask them to. Take my juniors, for instance. Often they'll have some sort of analysis activity followed by whole class discussion. Or, the entire class might be discussion based on some thought-provoking statements. At least, I had hoped to have discussion. Too bad most of them look at me, waiting for the one correct answer. Maybe but a handful will actually take a risk, raise a hand, and share an opinion. It's almost as if nobody knows how to think; as if they've been told sometime during their education that their opinions are irrelevant; all that matters is what's on the test. It's not as if they can't think, for they have and do share good ideas on occasion. I just wonder if they don't understand the importance of thinking.
Because of the tremendous amount of pressure these young people feel to pass their tests, an already long week seemed even longer. Due to testing, we were on a modified schedule which meant two two-hour classes a day, one 90-minute class (which is what we're accustomed to), and one fifteen-minute class (which is basically a joke). Add to it a mixed-up day (the periods weren't in their usual order so that we could accommodate all the tests), and it's no wonder everyone was anxious for today to be over. Considering that students have been testing for the past two-weeks (that includes the AP tests), I'm not surprised that most of them have shut down (intellectually). Since their course credit (and thus graduation) hinges on passing the test, it's no wonder they assume that they don't have to think (translation: work) for the remainder of the school year (did I mention it's only 14 more days?). I mean, if the state says that they've demonstrated understanding and knowledge of the particular subject matter, then why should they listen to the teacher and complete the remaining assignments? Aren't those just extra work?
Again, learning for the sake of learning is dying. And we teachers are fighting a losing battle.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Choice words
I encountered two rather amusing phrases today.
1. "The reason why athletes make good role models is because of the qualities that make them good role models." Yes, this was an argument one of my students made in his research paper. I had hoped that by this time in the year (since it's almost over), he would have had a better idea about how to support an opinion/ thesis. Apparently I needed to spell out the thinking behind arguments better. Looks like all the essays, editorial responses, projects, etc., didn't provide him with enough practice or guidance with supporting a thesis. Or maybe I needed to return to the basics; you know-- you can't define a word with the word.
2. "Barack O'bama is conducting a top secret search for a running mate." Hmmmm, if his search is top-secret, then how come the media knows? Plus, now that the nation is privy to this information, does that mean the search is no longer top secret?
1. "The reason why athletes make good role models is because of the qualities that make them good role models." Yes, this was an argument one of my students made in his research paper. I had hoped that by this time in the year (since it's almost over), he would have had a better idea about how to support an opinion/ thesis. Apparently I needed to spell out the thinking behind arguments better. Looks like all the essays, editorial responses, projects, etc., didn't provide him with enough practice or guidance with supporting a thesis. Or maybe I needed to return to the basics; you know-- you can't define a word with the word.
2. "Barack O'bama is conducting a top secret search for a running mate." Hmmmm, if his search is top-secret, then how come the media knows? Plus, now that the nation is privy to this information, does that mean the search is no longer top secret?
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Peace
Thinking about my miscarriage a couple weeks ago (has it been that long already?), I've realized that my reaction might be a bit atypical. Yes, I've cried (and cried and cried), but in the midst of the overwhelming sadness, I've had a peace that I cannot describe. That's not to diminish or dismiss others' experiences; it's simply my experience, my reaction, to a terrible event. The anger, the hollowness, the numbness, the depression, I haven't experienced any of those, yet I know that those feelings are as real as my own. And I think that each one of those reactions, whether we experience them all, a few, or none, is necessary for healing to begin. Until we can fully experience the depth of our loss through our gut emotions, we can't move forward. Moving forward, though, doesn't mean forgetting or negating the child who was lost. Moving forward means trusting and hoping for a better future. It means looking at what will be and not dwelling on all that was lost. It means remembering and honoring the baby who was by embracing the life we've been given now.
Today I rediscovered Psalm 16. Certain verses in particular reminded me of why there is peace in the midst of sadness, and hope after loss.
"LORD, you have assigned me my portion and my cup; you have made my lot secure" (Psalm 16:5)
"I have set the LORD always before me. Because he is at my right hand, I will not be shaken. Therefore my heart is glad and my tongue rejoices; my body also will rest secure" (Psalm 16: 8-9)
Though the storms rage, the Lord is there beside me, shielding me from the bulk of the wind and heavy rains. For whatever reason, I have to experience the storm, but I don't have to suffer through it alone; He is there, protecting me from the worst of it.
Today I rediscovered Psalm 16. Certain verses in particular reminded me of why there is peace in the midst of sadness, and hope after loss.
"LORD, you have assigned me my portion and my cup; you have made my lot secure" (Psalm 16:5)
"I have set the LORD always before me. Because he is at my right hand, I will not be shaken. Therefore my heart is glad and my tongue rejoices; my body also will rest secure" (Psalm 16: 8-9)
Though the storms rage, the Lord is there beside me, shielding me from the bulk of the wind and heavy rains. For whatever reason, I have to experience the storm, but I don't have to suffer through it alone; He is there, protecting me from the worst of it.
Monday, May 12, 2008
This IS advanced English, right?
Mortician (mor-tish'en) n. : an undertaker. Synonyms: guardian, parent.
Sample sentence: You can find a mortician at an orphanage.
Such was the definition that one group shared with the class. I let the definition slide initially because I thought I had simply mis-heard the group; then they read their sentence. At that point, I cut them off saying, "I hope you can't find a mortician at an orphanage, especially since they prepare people for burial!" Somehow my students-- sophomores in a Pre-AP class-- managed to confuse "undertaker" with "caretaker". Nevermind the fact that they had been given the root word "mort" along with its definition ("death" "dying"). So, why, oh why, did they assume that a mortician is a parent or guardian?
*sigh* Summer break can't come soon enough.
Sample sentence: You can find a mortician at an orphanage.
Such was the definition that one group shared with the class. I let the definition slide initially because I thought I had simply mis-heard the group; then they read their sentence. At that point, I cut them off saying, "I hope you can't find a mortician at an orphanage, especially since they prepare people for burial!" Somehow my students-- sophomores in a Pre-AP class-- managed to confuse "undertaker" with "caretaker". Nevermind the fact that they had been given the root word "mort" along with its definition ("death" "dying"). So, why, oh why, did they assume that a mortician is a parent or guardian?
*sigh* Summer break can't come soon enough.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Uh, yeah, I work out
You do? Cause, seriously, I wonder about some of the people I see at the gym. Don't get me wrong; the majority really is serious about working out, but there are the few exceptions that just make me laugh.
Exception #1: The Cell Phone Talker
I smiled to myself as I saw a mid-30s to early-40 year-old-man "working out"; course, he wasn't really working out the muscles I would expect someone to be working at the gym. No, he was working out his vocal cords. Really. He'd finish a rep (not a very long one of whatever exercise he was completing at the time), and then call someone (well, it looked that way since he'd flip open the phone, press a couple buttons, and then hold the phone to his ear). Now, I could understand doing so (well, only to an extent. I mean, really, if you're there to workout, then workout. Call people later.) if he only did so once, but this was after every rep! My goodness! Is it that important that you can't even wait till after your workout?!
Exception #2: The Never Let 'em See You Sweat Athlete
I guess the rest of that title might be "That's Why I Wear Street Clothes." When I'm at the gym working my muscles and sweating it out, I prefer athletic gear, whether I'm wearing shorts or leggings, long-sleeves or short-sleeves. Basically, athletic wear allows my body to breathe, and it's much looser, thus easier to move in. So why oh why do I see some who work out in jeans or Timberlines? Like above, I just laugh when I see gym members working out in not-so-appropriate attire. I mean, I love wearing jeans (and they are comfortable), but they certainly aren't the first piece of clothing I grab when I'm heading to the gym. But, I guess I have to give the street-clothes jocks a break; after all, those I've seen don't really seem to be exercising. It's more like they are going through the motions. For instance, the woman I saw today seemed to drift aimlessly from one piece of equipment to another, pausing long enough to fly through one rep at a light weight. She certainly didn't look like she was working; it looked more like she was lifting a couple of five pound weights.
Technically, I suppose that at the end of the day, both exceptions can say they went to the gym. As for working out... well, let's just say if I worked out the way they did, I certainly wouldn't be in the shape that I'm in now.
Technically, I suppose that at the end of the day, both exceptions can say they went to the gym. As for working out... well, let's just say if I worked out the way they did, I certainly wouldn't be in the shape that I'm in now.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Lord Stanley
Lord Stanley. That elusive yet all desirable guest. So many court him, yet only one has the pleasure, the honor, of basking in his presence. No, Lord Stanley will never grace our doorstep, but maybe, just maybe, he'll make the rounds of a few fortunate souls in NY. At least, that's what my husband hopes.
See, during this time of year, I consider myself to be a hockey widow; Scott might disagree, but then again, he turns to the arms of his "other" wife during playoffs, so how could he miss me? If his beloved NY Rangers are playing, then I can forget watching anything else (although tonight was an exception only because he could watch the game downstairs). If we haven't finished eating dinner and the game is on, then I can forget conversation. No, during playoff hockey, my husband becomes a different person entirely.
Don't get me wrong; Scott's not one to watch sports on TV like others I know. He can do without the football, basketball, and baseball, but when hockey's on, well, hockey is on.
Hence the transformation.
Case in point: Earlier this week, while I was at the computer, Scott was watching the Rangers/ Penguins game in the other room. Though we were in separate parts of the house, I knew exactly what was going on in the game. How, you ask? Simply by overhearing my husband courting his "other" wife:
"Awwww! Come on!"
"What are you doing?"
"A penalty?! Come on, ref!"
"Listen to me!!"
"Get 'em outta the zone!"
Of course, all this seductive talk makes me curious. Who is this other woman that is competing for (and winning) my husband's affections? What sort of power does she possess? I creep into the family room and find my husband transfixed by the woman on the screen. Really. There he is, standing on tip-toe in the middle of the room, ready to spring as soon as his team makes a play for the better. They're in scoring position, and so is Scott; fists clenched, arms bent, he cheers on his boys, urging them to take the shot. Then they score, activating the springs in Scott's feet, the clapping reflex, and the "Yea, that's what I'm talking about" automatic vocal response. But all of this is short lived. For soon, Scott's back to his favorite hockey-watching stance-- shifting his weight from one leg to the other-- while coaching his boys from the comfort of our home.
See, during this time of year, I consider myself to be a hockey widow; Scott might disagree, but then again, he turns to the arms of his "other" wife during playoffs, so how could he miss me? If his beloved NY Rangers are playing, then I can forget watching anything else (although tonight was an exception only because he could watch the game downstairs). If we haven't finished eating dinner and the game is on, then I can forget conversation. No, during playoff hockey, my husband becomes a different person entirely.
Don't get me wrong; Scott's not one to watch sports on TV like others I know. He can do without the football, basketball, and baseball, but when hockey's on, well, hockey is on.
Hence the transformation.
Case in point: Earlier this week, while I was at the computer, Scott was watching the Rangers/ Penguins game in the other room. Though we were in separate parts of the house, I knew exactly what was going on in the game. How, you ask? Simply by overhearing my husband courting his "other" wife:
"Awwww! Come on!"
"What are you doing?"
"A penalty?! Come on, ref!"
"Listen to me!!"
"Get 'em outta the zone!"
Of course, all this seductive talk makes me curious. Who is this other woman that is competing for (and winning) my husband's affections? What sort of power does she possess? I creep into the family room and find my husband transfixed by the woman on the screen. Really. There he is, standing on tip-toe in the middle of the room, ready to spring as soon as his team makes a play for the better. They're in scoring position, and so is Scott; fists clenched, arms bent, he cheers on his boys, urging them to take the shot. Then they score, activating the springs in Scott's feet, the clapping reflex, and the "Yea, that's what I'm talking about" automatic vocal response. But all of this is short lived. For soon, Scott's back to his favorite hockey-watching stance-- shifting his weight from one leg to the other-- while coaching his boys from the comfort of our home.
Poe(Mo) tR (r) y.e.
I was about to write, "I'm not sure why my thoughts have drifted to poetry lately," but then I remembered, "Duh! Uh, maybe because my sophomores are studying it." Anyway, I don't typically assign the poems below, but for whatever reason I enjoy them. I don't always understand e.e.cummings, but there's something about his craft that is simply intriguing.
anyone lived in a pretty how town
anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did
Women and men (both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain
children guessed (but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more
when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her
someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then) they
said their nevers they slept their dream
stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)
one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was
all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes
Women and men (both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain
anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did
Women and men (both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain
children guessed (but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more
when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her
someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then) they
said their nevers they slept their dream
stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)
one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was
all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes
Women and men (both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain
l(a... (a leaf falls on loneliness)
l(a
le
af
fa
ll
s)
one
l
iness
le
af
fa
ll
s)
one
l
iness
I think cummings' use of characters in the first poem is clever. Anyone and noone are no longer mindless, generic pronouns; instead, they now have a story, an identity that ties them together. If we read the poem based on what each pronoun literally means, well, then some lines seem particularly sad (and noone stopped to kiss his face); however, when we see that noone is actually a character, who is kissing anyone good-bye, well, then we become witnesses to an intimate moment.
As for the second poem, I love the format. I love how the single leaf literally falls on the word loneliness. There's structural movement, not just figurative movement. Plus, the structure of the poem actually helps me visualize the lone leaf as it drifts from the tree. That single image truly depicts loneliness. How clever.
As for the second poem, I love the format. I love how the single leaf literally falls on the word loneliness. There's structural movement, not just figurative movement. Plus, the structure of the poem actually helps me visualize the lone leaf as it drifts from the tree. That single image truly depicts loneliness. How clever.
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